


Cross the Board and Crown Yourself Queen

by candlebreak



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Kevin being a dick about a lot of things lbr, Kevin being a dick about suicide but honestly it’s cuz he hates himself, M/M, POV Kevin Day, Panic Attacks, Retelling, Riko is his own trigger warning, Suicide, Torture, also kevin's bisexual pining, basically it's a retelling of the series from Kevin's point of view, probably some background renison?, we’re gonna work on that I promise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:42:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24432277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/candlebreak/pseuds/candlebreak
Summary: Retelling of the trilogy from Kevin's POV. Fair warning that I will probably update slowly and sporadically. I do have the first three chapters done though, so that's something.
Relationships: Kevin Day & Andrew Minyard, Kevin Day & David Wymack, Kevin Day & Neil Josten, Kevin Day & Riko Moriyama, Kevin Day/Thea Muldani, Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 43
Kudos: 81





	1. The First Loss of the Season

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Janie Smalls is off the lineup, and the pre-season hasn't even started yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this one starts right out the gate with Janie's attempted suicide, and Kevin's reaction is...not great. He's not very good at feelings or empathy. Please skip this chapter if you don't want to deal with that shit.
> 
> Not entirely sure I have a grasp on the characters yet, but we'll get there. 
> 
> If you are thinking of hurting yourself, please PLEASE reach out to someone. National suicide hotline is here: 1-800-273-8255, and here's a link for non-US folks too: http://www.suicide.org/international-suicide-hotlines.html

Abby broke the news. It was after dinner, and Kevin was sunk into Abby’s couch, nursing a bottle of expensive vodka and waiting for Andrew to finish his stupid game so they could finally go to night practice. Abby was on the phone in the other room, and Kevin could feel the gentle buzz of her voice through the wall, even if he couldn’t make out the words.

“Boys,” said Abby, coming into the living room. “That was David. I have some news, and I’d like to preface it by saying that I am here if any of you need to talk, and Betsy is just a phone call and a ten minute drive away.”

That was enough to tear Nicky and Aaron away from the TV. Kevin didn’t move, but he could feel his fingers going numb from the death grip he had around the neck of the vodka bottle. It was in his left hand, anda year later it still strained too easily, scars spasming with even the slightest wrong movement. He tried to force his fist to unclench—he couldn’t play if he injured his hand further than he already had—but he couldn’t seem to get the muscles to work quite right, and his breath was already catching in his lungs in the all-too familiar precursor to a panic attack. _Riko had come for him._ It had to be.

Andrew was speaking, “Oh, Abby,” his grin was menacing as he dropped the controller and strolled over to Kevin’s spot on the couch, “you really do need to work on your openings. You’ve thrown poor Kevin here into a tizzy.”

“I’m not-”

Kevin cut himself off as Andrew grabbed a fistful of the hair at the nape of his neck and drew his face down to where Kevin was sitting. “This is not Riko, Kevin Day. This is not your master come to call you back to your cage. They would have sent a different messenger, hm? Not our dear, dear Abby, twisting herself into knots to preserve our oh-so-fragile mental health.” He laughed and pushed Kevin back into the couch. Kevin let himself be pushed.

“Well, Winfield, Winnie old pal, what’s got you so spooked you feel we’ll need Bee to pick up the pieces?”

Abby’s mouth thinned at Andrew’s mocking tone, but she didn’t beat around the bush any longer. “Janie’s in the hospital. She tried to kill herself. It’s touch-and-go at the moment, but even if she pulls through, she’s in no state to join the team come fall.”

It took a second for Kevin to contextualize. This was better than Riko. Not good, but fixable. Janie had tried to kill herself, fine. Kevin didn’t need quitters on his team anyway. He already had Andrew; that was more than enough bullshit to deal with.

Still. Kevin imagined the ambulance hauling her away, red blood on white bandages, yellow stretcher and the lights spinning round and round with the sirens. He took another swig of vodka and stared at the wall.

“We’ll need a new striker,” he said, “and there won’t be any good ones left this late in the season. Not that we’d ever recruit a good player to this team.”

“Kevin,” warned Abby, a gentle reproach.

He ignored her. “I am correct. This is why the Foxes are the laughingstock of Division I Exy. They recruit players too broken to hold themselves together and expect them to become a team worth anything.”

“Hey,” said Nicky. He was quieter than usual.

Aaron, too, objected to his statement. “You’re one of those broken losers too, asshole.”

Kevin fixed him with a withering glare. “Obviously, I included myself in that assessment.” He considered the bottle in his hands. “I’ll call Coach about finding a replacement.” 

He stood, and looked down into Andrew’s manic smile. “We leave for the court in twenty minutes. I’ll need to up my training regimen since we’re going to have two completely incompetent strikers on the line.” That last bit was more to himself than the others, but it needed to be said. The season was going to be a mess, but it didn’t need to be a total loss.

“Jesus, Kevin,” said Nicky. “Can’t you think of anything else for two fucking seconds? I mean, yeah, I know we haven’t met her yet, but you spent god knows how many hours watching her tapes and waxing poetical about her potential. You’ve got to at least feel something for the kid who just tried to kill herself. It’s okay to care about another human being, you know.”

“If she was worth caring about, she would be here, dedicating her life to her training, not throwing it all away because things got hard. There’s no place for that kind of defeatist attitude on my line.”

Kevin strode out of the room to call Wymack before his teammates could tear into him.

***

Andrew found him in Abby’s garden shed, curled under a shelf next to the potting soil.

“Mayday, Mayday, earth to Kevin Day. Twenty minutes was twenty minutes ago. Where’s that good old Exy fighting spirit?” There was that angry, bitter edge to his voice that meant the meds were wearing off.

Kevin scowled at him. Or he tried to. The angle was wrong; he could only see Andrew’s black-clad legs, shadowy in the non-existent light of the shed.

Andrew crouched beside him and pried the bottle out of his hands, tipped it up and took a swig. Or tried to. It was empty. He cocked his head. “This was full an hour ago.”

Kevin didn’t answer. He knew that already. There was a reason he hadn’t resisted the bottle being taken from his fingers.

Andrew studied him, bouncing a bit on the balls of his feet. “Kevin.”

Kevin didn’t look at him. The world was spinning, black and blue and blood, and if he moved, he would puke.

“Kevin.”

“Kevin.” This one was accompanied by a flick to his temple.

It took a while for the small, sharp pain to travel all the way to Kevin’s brain, but when it did, it was almost grounding. He swallowed, and blinked. Then he turned to face Andrew.

“Hmm.” Andrew squinted at him through the darkness and hummed. “Why?”

Kevin stared at him, not understanding.

Andrew sighed. “Forty minutes ago you didn’t give half a flying fuck about Janie Smalls trying to kill herself and you only gave that little bit because of what it would do to your precious line. Now you’ve buried yourself here under a bunch of dirt like you’re trying to be in your own grave. Symbolic, no?” He dug a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it. “Why?”

Kevin frowned. That wasn’t right. It took him a long time to find the words, and he had to speak carefully to keep from slurring. “It’s close. The space. Black, almost.”

Andrew considered that. “Like your Raven’s Nest.”

Kevin didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

“It’s a horrible metaphor. They should’ve called it the Burrow, or the Hole. The Pit, maybe?” Andrew thought for a second then clucked his tongue. “The Grave. Much more suitable for an underground lair so seeped in death. Nests are places you can fly from.”

“No,” Kevin disagreed, “the Tower was for death. The Nest was safe. It was the Tower-” he choked on his words and drew his knees closer to his chest.

Andrew didn’t buy it. “The Nest was where they broke you. Where they beat you down and told you you were second.How is that _safe_?”

Kevin traced the rough grain of the wood he was pressed against. “Safety is relative. The Nest was known. That’s what made it safe. It was _home_. When we went above—if we weren’t on the court—it was bad. It was always bad. The first time—I must have been about nine or ten. We were on the court, and the master summoned us up. Business, so Riko could get a handle on it and I would know my place. There was a man, bound to the floor. They’d left him ungagged, though, so he could scream.”

Now that he’d started talking, he couldn’t seem to stop. “One of the Moriyama’s men was there, and he cut into him with this dull cleaver. Started with the toes and worked his way up. It took him a long time to die. Eventually his vocal cords gave out and he was screaming but there was no sound, no sound, just screaming. It always went like that. Not in the details, but the pain. The screaming. The fucking stench of blood and shit and cut open intestines. That was always the same. And Riko would hold my hand and we’d watch and he’d grin and he’d whisper to me _this is what happens to people who take my things._ ” Kevin dug his finger into the whorl of the wood, not caring if it splintered or scraped.

“Once I—” He couldn’t say it. “I thought if I—if I left, it’d be over, but he found me and he—he—” He was breathing too fast now, fast and shallow, and the air couldn’tmake it into his lungs. But the words were still forcing their way up his throat somehow. “And _how dare_ I try to take what was his. _How dare_ I try to break his things. My life is his; it always has been and it always will be, and it’s only a matter of time before he comes to claim what’s-”

“No.” Andrew had somehow forced himself in front of Kevin’s face. “You are not his. You are not his. Do you hear me, Kevin Day? Listen to me.” His hands framed Kevin’s face, close but not touching, like blinders on a skittish horse. “Listen to me. Listen.”

Andrew’s breath was hot on Kevin’s face, smelling still of tobacco and smoke. “You are not property. You are not a _thing_. You are a person, and you belong only to yourself.”

Kevin shook his head, a denial, and a pained whimper escaped his lips.

“You do not believe me, but these are truths.” He paused, searching Kevin’s face for—something. “Another truth, then, if you cannot believe the first. Know this: until the day you are your own master, you do not belong to Riko. You are _mine_. You are mine, and I don’t share. Understand?”

Somehow, Kevin managed a small, shaky nod. Barely a bob of the head. His breath hitched, then started to even out, and he could breathe, he could breathe again, even if his heart was still galloping away in his throat.

Andrew stayed where he was for a long moment, then nodded in return, slow and solemn. Kevin was suddenly aware of how close they were, both of them crammed into the cramped space of the bottom shelf, Andrew’s face millimeters from his own, not touching but close enough Kevin could swear he felt the soft hairs on Andrew’s nose brushing his own. He drew in a shaky breath, tobacco smoke and vodka, and looked into those fathomless hazel eyes.

Then Andrew pulled back, disentangling himself from the shelf and from Kevin. He sat on the ground opposite to where Kevin was still curled into the wall. “Don’t,” he said.

Kevin closed his eyes and nodded, resigned, and pressed himself further into the wall.

He woke up some time later to Andrew hauling him out of the dirt. Andrew led him back inside and dumped him into bed, and Kevin was asleep again before Andrew could even toss a blanket over him.


	2. A Striker Sub

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kevin goes through new potential strikers, and singles out Neil

“No.”

Wymack grit his teeth. “You barely glanced at her file.”

Kevin stood firm. Or sat firm. They were both crammed into Wymack’s office, surrounded by messy stacks of files and a battered old TV. “I won’t play with her. She’s not good enough.”

“You’ve already made it abundantly clear that no one is good enough for the great Kevin Day. Would you at least _consider_ the files before rejecting them out of hand?”

“I did consider it. She’s not worth it.”

Wymack stared him down. “Her stats are excellent.”

Kevin stared back at him. The master would never have even considered any of these wrecks for recruit. The master also wouldn’t have given a crap what Kevin thought of his teammates, as long as they played.

“Her stats are fine,” Kevin conceded. “But she’s not a player.” He rewound the tape to the section he was looking for. “See?”

The striker—he’d already erased her name from his memory—was passable. Technically proficient, or at least what passed for such among the candidate pool for the Foxes. The play was good; she stole the ball from the opposing dealer, passed it back to defense, defense to dealer, dealer back to her, her across to the other striker, he sent it back to her, and she scored before the other team’s defense could slam into her. He paused right there, where she’d just taken the shot, and tapped the screen. “She’s already turning away, getting out of range of that backliner. It’s a good shot, but any shot is blockable and the goalie’s angled towards her. If he deflects, the rebound will go to her and she won’t be there to get it because she’s too busy running away from defense. That so-called backliner is no match for her strength-wise. She should be marking the goal, defense be damned.”

“So she needs some work. She was the top scorer of all the strikers in Louisiana.”

“Louisiana’s high school teams are shit. And only eight of her goals this year were on the rebound. She’s fast and she has decent aim, but she’s overconfident and she’s not a team player.”

“You’re one to talk.”

Kevin scoffed “One: I am infinitely better than her. Two: I may not socialize with them, but I _play_ with the team. Three: I mark the goal. She’s been playing eight years. That’s little league stuff: when you take a shot, you mark the goal. I am not playing with someone who doesn’t care enough to get the basics right.”

Wymack sent a silent prayer to the heavens. Kevin frowned, trying not to stare. Was his father religious? Kevin’s mother had been. She’d taken him to church every Sunday, Catholic mass. It had been comforting, the ritual, the heavy blanket of incense, the Latin washing over him. He’d only gone once since she’d gotten herself killed, and had only lasted five minutes before the grief and the anger and the fear overwhelmed him and he had to leave. He’d thrown up in the parking lot and never tried again. He didn’t think he could find comfort in God anymore. Did Wymack?

He imagined his mother and Wymack, as they had been before Kevin, taking solace in God and in each other. They were both so _good_ , so sure in their faith in other people, so confident in their own paths. Maybe they’d also shared that same faith in God. Kevin tried, but he couldn’t imagine any place for himself in that perfect picture.

Wymack ran a hand through his hair. “Fine. She’s out. But you’re going to have to pick one of them. You and Seth can’t hold the line alone.”

“I am aware,” said Kevin, snapping a bit more than he’d intended. “But this batch on players is garbage. Send out a new call.”

Wymack just dumped one of the folders in front of him in response.

Kevin looked at it. It was one of the ones he’d already thrown in the garbage can. “A one-year rookie? No.”

“You’re going to need to give me a better reason than that. At least watch the highlight reel.”

Kevin sighed, but switched out the tapes and pretended to watch. He could use the time to reformulate his meal plan.

Thirty seconds later, he was actually watching, meal plan forgotten. The kid was raw and unrefined, too small and too weak, but he _played_. The tape was fuzzy and, unlike most of the others, hadn’t been professionally cut. There were shots upon shots of him getting checked, losing the ball, falling, and then getting right back up and into the fray. It should have been the least convincing highlight reel of all time. Kevin was captivated.

Kevin watched as the kid snagged a goal right before being slammed into the wall. It took him a few seconds too long to get back up, and his coach called him off the court when the ref called foul. The kid jogged backwards towards the bench, clearly favoring his right leg. His eyes never left the court, like he couldn’t bear even a second of not watching the game, of not being in the game.

When the tape spun out, Kevin rewound it to the beginning and started it again.

“This one,” said Kevin, as the tape started again. “We want this one.”

Wymack studied him for a long moment. Kevin didn’t know what he was looking for. Then he nodded. “We’ll fly to Arizona on Friday. I’m working on convincing Chuck and the ERC to keep his signing hush-hush until the season actually starts. Last thing we need is more press or Ravens fans harassing the kid.”

Kevin nodded absentmindedly. “Mystery is good press,” he said, “makes things interesting for when he finally breaks onto the scene.”But most of his attention was still on the tape.

There was something about the new striker—Kevin checked the file for his name: Neil Josten—there was something about Neil Josten that was hauntingly familiar, something in the set of his shoulders and the desparate fury of his stride, something that resonated deep within in the hollow of Kevin’s chest.

It took Kevin another run through the tape before he recognized it: Neil Josten played like Kevin had, the night he’d played Riko. Not in his technique, which was sloppy at best, or his skill, which was mediocre, but in his _attitude_. He played like he knew he was going to die tomorrow, like he knew he would be beaten down for his hubris, but he played anyway because the game was all there was. Kevin stared, solemn, and raised his hand to trace the path of the green-and-purple blotch of a player across the screen. That was what Kevin had been, for one glorious night. That was what he could never be again. _Neil Josten_.

“He’s going to make Court,” Kevin whispered. _For both of us. For what could have been_. He was shaking.

When Wymack didn’t respond to that, Kevin looked around. The coach had slipped out of the room at some point. Kevin could hear his voice down the hallway, muffled as he argued on the phone.

Kevin took a steadying breath and nodded to himself. He was in the Foxhole Court. His father was down the hall. Nationals were waiting. Kevin couldn’t have any of those things; he was too much a Raven, too much a coward, too much a broken wreck to be the champion and son he’d been born to be. But maybe Neil Josten could.


	3. A Meeting in Charles Whittier's Office

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kevin fights for his striker. Andrew may or may not be amused.

Kevin felt his ‘public-celebrity’ smile slipping. He’d been forced to use it much too much the past few days. First the ERC, now this rigmarole. He ground his teeth and forced his smile wider. “Listen, Margaret,” he said to the screen in Chuck Whittier’s office. “I understand your hesitation. It is…unprecedented. But this team is also unprecedented. My transfer was unprecedented, and you will see spectacular dividends from that. This is the same. This player is good. He could be great. Four years and he’ll go pro; five and he’ll be Court. You don’t want a player of that calibre going to another school, and you will kick yourselves in five years when you see him rising through the ranks. Palmetto needs an icon, one who isn’t me. I am too closely tied to Edgar Allen, even after coaching last season. This player could be one of the top five strikers in the history of Exy. Top three.” _Top two, even_. Kevin could never get back to how good he’d been, and even then he had never played his best. He didn’t deserve the two tattooed on his cheekbone. “All we’re asking for is a little time, a little anonymity so that he can get through the pre-season without constant threats from disgruntled fans. That is not much in exchange for a champion.”

Margaret—whom he perhaps should have addressed as Dr. Gettering, as she was one of the more senior members of the school board—harrumphed through the video phone line. “I understand your request not to announce the signing to the public. What I don’t understand is why this mystery player’s name should be kept from the Board.”

Kevin breathed through his nose. “You know the saying, 'three people can keep a secret if two of them are dead'? It is not that we don’t trust you, because of course we do,”— _of course we don’t_ —“but there are a lot more than three people on the Board.”

Margaret looked ready to keep arguing, but Wymack interjected, backing his play. “If Kevin says we have to have him, we have to have him. And this is the best way we can ensure his safety in the pre-season. How about a compromise? We’ll have Chuck sign off on it with the player’s information, and release his identity to you once the school year starts, but before it’s released to the public. The ERC has already agreed to fly blind on this, and they have a great deal more at stake in the identity of regulated players. Besides, the mystery will generate a good deal of publicity. And publicity means ticket revenue.”

There was more arguing back and forth, but eventually the school board signed off on Josten—not that they knew who they were signing on. Twenty minutes later, Wymack and Kevin could leave. The boy was as good as signed.

Andrew opened the door and bowed them through. He’d been remarkably quiet during the board meeting, standing guard just inside the door to Chuck’s office, though he hadn’t stopped bouncing with manic energy through the whole thing. Now the floodgates opened.

“Should I be jealous, Kev? ‘Top three strikers in the history of Exy’? A _champion_? And don’t think I didn’t notice your ridiculously over-inflated estimation of your own worth, calling yourself an icon.”

Kevin glared at him. “I am an icon.” He stated it as fact, because it was. “And you would have no need to be jealous if you would actually play. You could easily be a champion, if you would just _try_.” It was an old argument, but Kevin would win it eventually. As soon as he could get Andrew off the medicine that made him too jittery and high to care about anything.

Andrew just laughed. “Oh, Kevin. You and I both know that wasn’t what I was talking about. Don’t worry, I will never dedicate even a sliver of the devotion you or your champion sacrifice to the altar of Exy. But surely you can see how it hurts my tender feelings that you have spent so much time the past week extolling the virtues of our latest sob story. You might leave me for him, and then where would we be?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Kevin snapped, but a pit of anxiety curled in his stomach. _Where would you be if I wasn’t there to protect you?_ said Andrew’s question, and Kevin knew the answer.

“Aw, Kev.” Seeing Kevin wasn’t impressed by his whining, he turned to Wymack. “Coach, do you hear that? Kevin’s gonna leave me for his pretty new toy and then I won’t be able to keep him.”

Kevin stumbled, but caught himself before he could fall. Andrew was joking—Kevin thought he was joking, _please dear God let him be joking_ —but the pointed suggestion of Andrew leaving was enough for Kevin’s lungs to seize with panic. Somehow he kept walking, legs on autopilot.

“Your teammates aren’t toys, Minyard.” Kevin let the sound of his father’s voice ground him, enough so that he could actually breathe.

“Aren’t they?” asked Andrew. He tapped his chin in mock thought. “No, I suppose you may be right, Coach. Toys at least are interesting, and none of those idiots have even that much going for them.”

Andrew and Wymack bickered back and forth for the rest of the walk, but Kevin didn’t say anything until after they split up at the parking lot.

He slid into the passenger seat of the GS a moment before Andrew got in. “Don’t,” said Kevin, before Andrew’s hand could touch the radio dial. “Don’t joke about that.”

“Don’t joke about what?” Andrew affected a horrible imitation of confusion, eyes wide and mocking.

Kevin just stared him down.

Eventually, Andrew sighed and gave up the pretense of not knowing what Kevin was talking about. “Who said I was joking?”

Kevin couldn’t stop the blood draining from his face, but he could force himself to meet Andrew’s eyes. “You will not leave me.” He’d meant it to sound like a command, but it came out like a plea instead.

Andrew cocked his head and grinned. “Then give me a reason to stay. Hold up your end of the bargain.”

Kevin grit his teeth. “I am. I am playing, and I will make you into the best goalkeeper the world has ever seen.”

Andrew snorted, but Kevin kept going. “I said I would, and I will. The only thing stopping you is your own stubbornness. The only thing you have to be _jealous_ of is a superior work ethic.”

“You haven’t even met the man. His work ethic could be worse than mine.”

Kevin gave him a flat look. It would be impossible to have a work ethic worse than Andrew’s.

Andrew, of course, only laughed. “Kevin. Oh, Kevin. It would take more than a stupid sub striker to separate me from your side. You know this already, so stop making unnecessary and foolish demands.”

He broke Kevin’s gaze and blasted the radio on. They didn’t speak for the rest of the ride back to Abby’s.


	4. Millport, Arizona

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, we have arrived at the start of the books. Kevin "meets" Neil.

The Foxes’ season was over, so there was no conflict for Kevin, Andrew, and Wymack to all fly out to Arizona on a Friday night. It felt distinctly wrong to Kevin, having a Friday off this time of year. Then again, everything felt wrong all the time.

Josten’s high school coach, Hernandez, picked them up at Tucson Airport and drove them the hour or so trip to Millport. Andrew was next to him in the backseat, and chattered away about unimportant nonsense for the whole trip. Kevin tried to sleep, found it impossible, then tried to study for finals and felt violently carsick. It was not a pleasant journey.

Kevin almost threw himself out of the car when they pulled into the high school parking lot. The game wasn’t for another hour, and the stadium was relatively empty. Just in case, Kevin wore sunglasses and a hoodie, the staple outfit of celebrities everywhere. It was stupid, but it worked, even if it was getting a little dark out for sunglasses.

His legs took him automatically to the court. It was a pitiful setup, a temporarily repurposed soccer field, and scarcely deserving of having Exy played on it. Then again, the high school games that it was used for probably weren’t worthy of being called Exy.

“You’re ridiculous.” Andrew stood at his shoulder and stared at him.

Kevin was saved from having to retort by a sharp whistle from Wymack, who gestured at them both to follow him and Hernandez inside. 

“Need I remind you we are trying to _avoid_ any cameras picking you up?” he snapped.

Kevin didn’t bother to respond. He let Wymack lead the way into the locker room and sort out the logistics with Hernandez. They’d stay in the coach’s office while the crowds were around, then talk to the new striker after the game was over. Kevin had to put on his public-celebrity smile for the whole conversation, which was annoying and draining, but necessary.

Andrew immediately claimed one of the office’s two chairs and started spinning himself around the room.

Kevin ignored his childish behavior, and turned to Hernandez. “How is it coaching Josten? He was a rookie coming on your team, but he’s obviously made remarkable progress since then.”

Hernandez nodded. “He’s dedicated and he loves the game. Quiet, keeps to himself, doesn’t make trouble. He’s easy to coach. Main thing is forcing him to take a break. He was raw, sure, when he started out, but he was all in. Even studied from a bunch from how-to books; I got some complaints from teachers that he was reading them under the desk during class.” Hernandez snorted softly at that.

Andrew groaned and rocked to a stop against the wall. “Why am I not surprised you’ve managed to pick out a Kevin 2.0 from all the masses of strikers you could have chosen?”

Kevin sniffed and pretended not to notice that Hernandez had jumped a little when the goalkeeper spoke. “I don’t read how-to books. I don’t need to.”

“No, you read stats and play-by-plays and diagram out players’ reaches underneath your desk during class. That’s oh-so-very different.”

Kevin rolled his eyes and turned back to Hernandez. “Why did he try out now? After so many years of never playing, why now? What made him want to be a striker?”

“You’d have to ask him why he tried out,” replied Hernandez. “As to why he’s a striker, that’s easy. He didn’t have any experience, so I put him where there was a gap in the line. He’d originally tried out for defense.”

Kevin frowned. “He’s too small for defense.”

“Excuse you,” said Andrew.

“You and Aaron are sturdier.”

“Mm. He is rather twig-like. Snappable.” Andrew snapped his fingers in demonstration.

“Andrew,” warned Wymack. He took over interrogating Hernandez. “Should we invite his parents to our little afterparty offer here?”

Hernandez was shaking his head before Wymack even finished. “You’re welcome to invite them, but I doubt they’d come.”

“Are they going to be a problem?” Wymack crossed his arms as he listened to the response.

“Damned if I know. I haven’t met them even once; they haven’t come to any of his games, no teacher-parent conferences, nothing. Neil says they’re busy; his mom works out of Touscon and his dad commutes to Phoenix, so they’re a bit scattered, but still. I’ve been trying to get through to them ever since you said you were coming, but”—Hernandez shrugged—“no dice.”

Wymack nodded, taking in that information. “I take it that’s why you thought he’d be a good fit for this team.”

Hernandez hesitated. “Yes. Well, that and-” his eyes flicked to Andrew, unsure.

Wymack sighed. “Normally, I’d send these two idiots out of the room for this kind of talk, but we’re really trying to keep a low profile and I can already hear some of your players out there. Whatever you feel Neil would be comfortable sharing would be fine.”

Hernandez’s mouth twisted and he seemed to battle with himself. “I’m not telling you anything the team doesn’t already know. Like I said, he’s quiet. He’s not particularly close to anyone on the team; he holds himself separate, showers alone, leaves alone after everyone else has gone. And I’m pretty sure he doubles back half the week to sleep in the locker room. That’s it, really.”

Wymack nodded. Andrew looked pensive. There were a few pleasantries to round out the conversation, Hernandez switched the TV to the local channel to broadcast the game, and finally, they were alone again.

Kevin dug his history notes out of his bag and tried to pick up where he’d left off.

“How come I get the suspicious looks from coaches and Kevin doesn’t?” Andrew complained. “He’s just as much of a bastard as I am.”

Wymack pinched the bridge of his nose and lowered himself into the remaining chair. “Only one of you referred to our new player—that coach’s current player—as ‘snappable’ with a visual demonstration.”

“He better not be _that_ snappable, Coach. If all it takes to break him is a little squish between my fingers, then he won’t make it to the first game and Kevin will be sad.”

Wymack sighed. “You will _not_ be breaking any of my players this year, Minyard. Understood?”

“So next year is fair game, yes? Is that by the academic calendar or Gregorian? I can be patient.”

“Try again, Andrew, this time without being a smartass.”

Andrew laughed. “Sure thing, Coach.”

Wymack stared at him and waited, but Andrew’s promise wasn’t forthcoming. The only thing that passed through his lips was a bubbling laugh at Coach and Kevin’s frustration.

The game passed agonizingly slowly. Kevin couldn’t focus on his studying, but the game was also not worthy of his attention and Andrew said or did something distracting every five minutes. By the time the game finally finished and Hernandez reported that the rest of the players were gone and Josten was in the shower, Kevin had his notes for every single class stacked around him and hadn’t studied any of them.

“Can we move to a different room now, Coach? I’m bored in this one.” No surprises that that was Andrew.

“Are you just going to immediately complain that you’re bored when you get into that room?”

“Yes, but I will be a different shade of bored.” Andrew strolled out of the office. “Come, Kev, let’s see what Arizona’s all about.”

Kevin sighed and collected his papers. They found a lounge to sit in, and Andrew tried each and every chair, deeming them all unsatisfactory. Kevin moved the TV and hoisted himself up onto the entertainment center after the second time Andrew asked him to trade seats. He got his papers sorted around him and stared at them, ignoring the hole Andrew was boring into his head with his eyes.

Finally, Andrew gave up. “You’re boring,” he muttered, and started pacing around the room. He’d picked up a stick somewhere, a cheap-range heavy racquet in garish yellow, and twirled it like a baton as he did his rounds.

Kevin had finally managed to start concentrating again when a blur of motion and the too-familiar _crunch_ of racquet on flesh and bone hit his ears, followed by the crash of a body into linoleum flooring.

Well. There was their striker. It was not an auspicious entrance.

Wymack admonished Andrew. They went back and forth a bit, and it ended with Andrew saluting Josten on the floor. “Better luck next time.”

“Fuck you,” said Josten. His voice was rough with pain, but unafraid. “Whose racquet did you steal?” If any of them had had any doubts that Josten was suited to be a Fox, those doubts were now laid to rest.

“Borrow,” said Andrew, “Here you go.” He tossed the racquet to Josten as if it were his. It obviously wasn’t; Josten played with a lightweight stick. They’d have to fix that eventually, but that was a problem for another day.

The coaches fussed over Josten, and Josten tried to sneak away. Kevin narrowed his eyes. _Why was a player who played the way he did trying to get_ out _of signing a contract?_ It didn’t make sense. Andrew was supposed to be a one-off. Josten’s back was to Kevin, so he couldn’t try to read the boy’s face for his reasons.

Wymack managed to dismiss Hernandez, and it was just the four of them.

“I already gave you my answer.” There was no hesitation in Josten’s voice. “I won't sign with you."

"You didn't listen to my whole offer,” countered Wymack. “If I paid to fly three people out here to see you the least you could do is give me five minutes, don't you think?"

Josten recoiled as if he’d been struck. "You didn't bring him here."

 _Him_ had to be Kevin, but Kevin couldn’t think of any reason he would provoke such a strong reaction. This was not the reaction of an awe-struck fan. That Kevin could deal with; he’d done so before. This was something else. Hatred? Fear? Disgust? It was hard to tell without being able to read his face.

He puzzled over it. _Oh_. Josten was one of the ones who’d taken Riko’s side, who decided Kevin was the betrayer of all that is holy, who hated Kevin with every fiber of his being. Kevin swallowed. He could deal with that too; after all, he dealt with himself every day.

“Is that a problem?"Wymack was asking.

Josten hesitated. Kevin braced for the blow. “I’m not good enough to play on the same court as a champion."

The answer caught him off guard. ”True, but irrelevant," the words were out of Kevin’s mouth before he was aware of saying them.

Josten spun around, pale at the sight that awaited him, as if Kevin in his USC hoodie was the black-robed spectre of Death. “What are you doing here?"

As if it wasn’t obvious. Kevin turned to the more important question, the one that didn’t have an easy answer. “Why were you leaving?"

"I asked you first."

Did the idiot have two brain cells in his entire body? ”Coach already answered that question. We are waiting for you to sign the contract. Stop wasting our time." 

"No,” said Josten. “There are a thousand strikers who'd jump at the chance to play with you. Why don't you bother them?"

Hm. Perhaps their new recruit just had a terminal case of low self-esteem?

"We saw their files," Wymack said. "We chose you."

"I won't play with Kevin."

That was fixed easily enough.

"You will," said Kevin. He could probably convince Andrew to drag the striker onto the court if it came to that.

Wymack shrugged at Neil. "Maybe you haven't noticed, but we're not leaving here until you say yes. Kevin says we have to have you, and he's right."

Josten still looked dubious and ready to bolt. He didn’t believe them.

"We should have thrown away your coach's letter the second we opened it," said Kevin. There was no point sugar-coating it, and it was obvious the kid knew it already. ”Your file is deplorable and I don't want someone with your inexperience on our court. It goes against everything we're trying to do with the Foxes this year. Fortunately for you, your coach knew better than to send us your statistics. He sent us a tape so we could see you in action instead. You play like you have everything to lose."

Josten’s face relaxed as Kevin spoke. ”That's why," he said, like Kevin’s speech had contained the answers to the universe.

Kevin met his gaze. ”That's the only kind of striker worth playing with."

Wymack gave Josten a rundown of the terms of his contract, but Josten’s focus remained on Kevin. He was looking for something, and Kevin had no idea if he found it.

"It's not a good idea." Josten’s protest was less certain this time, and the yearning was clear on his face.

"Your opinion has been duly noted and dismissed," Wymack said. "Anything else, or are you going to start signing stuff?"

The two of them went back and forth a bit until it got to the personal. Then Wymack cut his eyes over to Andrew and Kevin. “Go wait in the car.”

Kevin sighed and slid off the entertainment center. He gathered up his files and followed Andrew to the backseat of Hernadez’s SUV.

Hernandez, thankfully, was not there. Kevin slammed the door shut. “What a fucking _idiot,_ ” he ground out.

“Aw, did Kevin get his feelings hurt when the little baby striker told him no?”

“Fuck you.” Kevin glared at him. “Did you have something to do with this?”

“Did I-?” Andrew looked genuinely surprised for a second, then burst out laughing. “Did I, what, scheme with the wunderkind to deny you your heart’s deepest desire? No, I’d have to give more of a shit to do that, Kev, and in case you didn’t notice, I don’t.”

“You will,” said Kevin, but he let that argument drop for now. “And that’s not what I meant. No one ever said no before you showed up.”

“What can I say?” said Andrew. “I’m a trendsetter.”

Kevin seethed in silence after that, and Andrew seemed content to toy with his armbands. He seemed distinctly frustrated by the lack of knives, but the last thing they’d needed was Andrew getting detained by the TSA and Kevin ignored his ill temper.

“Oh, look,” said Andrew a few minutes later, nodding to the rearview mirror. “It’s our roadrunner. Beep beep.” He slid open the door and leaned out. ”Too good to play with us, too good to ride with us?"

Josten just glared at him, and took off at a jog. Andrew only laughed as he closed the door again.

Wymack slid into the passenger seat, Hernandez only a second behind him in the driver’s.

“Well?” asked Kevin.

“We’re picking him up from Upstate on May twelfth. He’ll fax over the paperwork on Monday.”

Kevin nodded. Josten was obviously an imbecile, but he would show up and play. That was all that mattered.

The ride back to the airport was tense and awkward. Kevin was already planning drills in his head. What exactly he would need to bring his striker up to scratch. It would take some doing.

It wasn’t until they’d landed back in South Carolina and piled into Coach’s car that Andrew said anything. His meds had worn down to almost nothing, and he wasn’t smiling when he spoke.

“Why’d he react to Kevin like that?”

Wymack shrugged. “Kevin’s a celebrity. People freak sometimes.”

Kevin nodded in agreement. It had happened before. More often than not, actually.

“No,” said Andrew. “That was not star-struck behavior. That was something else.” He leaned forward in the front seat, a slight frown creasing his brow. Kevin glared at his black-clad back. Now he was taking up even less room, and he still hadn’t rolled the seat forward. Andrew didn’t need extra room. Kevin did.

Wymack didn’t seem particularly concerned with whatever was troubling Andrew. “Whatever his issue with Kevin is, he’ll have to deal with it. The two of them will be in close proximity all year.”

Andrew clucked his tongue. “That,” he said, “is what I am worried about.”


	5. Finals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kevin watches an interview post-Edgar Allen’s championship win. Riko sends him into a panic spiral. Andrew and Betsy are there to help him get back up. 
> 
> feat. Kevin processing his trauma through the lens of his history paper for like, 2000 words. I’m so sorry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, this is a long one, and pretty intense. Hoping to start having some more fun scenes interspersed through this soon. Unfortunately, Kevin isn’t really in a place right now to see much of the happiness in life :( He does get to have a history nerd-out though! Which is actually my history nerd-out, because I am a history nerd. Don’t know if that counts as fun. I had a lot of fun writing it, but no idea how interesting it is to read.
> 
> Big cw for panic attacks, disassociation, flashbacks to torture, Riko, ableism, and victim-blaming (Kevin blaming himself, not others blaming him) in this one. 
> 
> Also: starvation, plague, and systemic racism leading to mass death. These are kind of in a theoretical, historical context (in-depth discussion of the Bengali Famine), but given the hellfire of our current historical context, I figure a cw is warranted in case it hits too close to home. The entire reason it was on my mind is that I was talking with my grandfather, who lived through it, about the parallels to our modern day and just getting increasingly more angry about the legacy of white supremacy and how awful everything is and history repeating itself in many ways, so…do with that what you will?
> 
> Take care of yourselves.

Kevin watched the finals. Of course he watched the finals. It was Edgar Allen v. Penn. USC had lost to Penn by one goal at semifinals, so they were out for the season. Kevin had stared stone-faced at the screen for half an hour USC’s loss then turned in early and cried silently in his bunk. He didn’t know why it had hurt so much.

Now, though, he was almost glad USC hadn’t made it this far. Riko was angry, which meant all the Ravens were angry, which meant the game was unnecessarily violent. Kevin had never minded the brawls and fights and borderline-illegal checks on the court, but he’d never enjoyed them either. He’d never seen the point. Weren’t they on the court to play? Riko, on the other hand, exulted in the violence. Tonight, he was in his element.

Jenkins had taken Kevin’s place as starting striker. It was still odd, unnatural, watching Riko play without him. Not so much watching Riko play through the screen, which he had done hundreds of times as they dissected all their wrong moves, but watching his brother play alone and unpaired. For all Jenkins was one of the best strikers in the world, she was not Kevin.

Kevin watched the game on his laptop, headphones in, sitting in his bed alone. Andrew had tried to bribe him away to Columbia with the promise of getting absolutely shitfaced instead of watching. Kevin had just sneered at that offer, but the longer the game went the more he wished he hadn’t. His heart was beating too fast, his blood pumping with adrenaline as if he were on the field. He couldn’t tear himself away from the screen.

The game ended on an 8-3 Raven win. Riko had bagged five of those goals. Kevin knew he shouldn’t, but he kept watching after the game ended for the interviews and post-game commentary.

He was already halfway through a handle of Andrew’s whisky when the interviews started. The alcohol dulled the world, but it also blurred the borders between reality and screen, past and present.

“Riko,” one of the reporters was asking, “how does it feel to win your first championship without Kevin?”

Kevin should have shut the laptop closed as soon as the game ended, as soon as the interview started, as soon as the question was asked. He didn’t.

“It is unfortunate, of course, that Kevin couldn’t be here tonight,” said Riko, all sad smiles and cold lies. “His place is at my side, and it is a true tragedy that he. . . felt the need to test his limits in such a dangerous way, and ended up the worse for it. He never did understand when it was time to step back and let someone else take the lead, and I worry now with his planned return to the field that he will only end up more hurt. But I cannot let my concern for Kevin keep holding me back. In the end, I am a Raven and we will always be the best in the game. Our win tonight only further cements that fact.” He delivered the whole monologue looking directly in the camera, directly at Kevin.

Kevin knew that look. That was a look that promised pain. Agonies beyond imagination. Or agonies that should have been beyond imagination. Kevin could imagine them all too well. Knives on skin, toying and slicing and flicking under fingernails and ripping them out. Flames held close enough to make your skin blister and pop and melt, the little hairs sizzling away. But never so bad as to leave a lasting mark. Water and suffocation and freezing _cold_ and above it all: Riko’s face, watching and promising more pain.

Kevin closed his eyes, but Riko was still there, still staring at him. He forced his eyes open, hoping to see the screen focusing on something else, but it was still Riko always Riko and Kevin was still there, still there with Riko and his hand was on fire and he couldn’t breathe couldn’t breathe Riko was _here_ , Riko was here and Kevin would never play again, never breathe again, same thing, never breathe again, Riko was here-

And then he wasn’t.

“Breathe.” Andrew’s voice, distant and unbothered. He had shut the laptop screen.

Kevin looked at disembodied white head hovering in the darkness. Was this a hallucination? Had he died and gone to hell? Had Andrew learned how to fly?

Then Andrew shifted and Kevin realized that he was simply standing on the bunk bed’s ladder, dressed in black from chin to toe, shadow on shadow in the dark room.

“Breathe,” said Andrew again, and Kevin tried to obey, tried to be good, but he couldn’t force anything through his closed-up throat. All he could manage was a desparate wheeze, a whistle of air out of too-tight passageways, but somehow he gasped in and his breath came in shallow and fast, but he was breathing. He was breathing.

“We’re leaving.”

When Kevin didn’t respond, Andrew pulled him off the bed. Kevin landed roughly. He’d have bruises tomorrow. Strangely enough, the blunt pain was comforting, familiar. It felt right, in a way nothing had felt right in a while. Kevin deserved to hurt.

He stumbled upright, using the bed as support. “I need to go back,” he said. He still didn’t have enough air to make the words come out as more than whispers, but they were there, and they were true. “I need to go back. He’ll-”

“No.” Andrew didn’t even make it up to Kevin’s shoulder, but he somehow took up the whole doorway, blocking Kevin’s way out. He was sober, or close to it. It was late.

Kevin tried to bowl past him, because Andrew didn’t understand, didn’t know the necessity, didn’t know how much worse things could get, but the goalie blocked his every attempt.

“I need-” Kevin couldn’t even force the words out anymore. “I need-” He collapsed onto the floor. He couldn’t. He just couldn’t, anymore. His body was done trying to obey orders, his or anyone else’s. It was too much. Kevin was done.

He felt himself being moved, manhandled somewhere, but it was a distant kind of feeling. Kevin wasn’t there anymore. His body was being forced down into a beanbag, and there were voices, but it didn’t matter. Kevin needed to go home, but he couldn’t, so he just float untethered and unbodied and waited for the pain came crashing back. He stared at something—TV maybe? wall?—and saw nothing. It was bright in this room, flourescent lights and a high ringing in his ears, legs rushing around in unfathomable patterns. His vision was blacking out around the edges. Whether that was the alcohol or the lack of air, Kevin didn’t know, and he didn’t care. It would be nice, to just stop. Let it all go blank. Just the shrill screech of the lights and the blackness, and Kevin gone in the middle of it. He wouldn’t have to hurt anymore. He would just be that high scream in the air, no more fear.

The voices were gone, and the legs. Presumably the people too. It was just Kevin and the lights now, and his body somewhere below.

And then: “Kevin? Kevin, can you hear me?”

The voice was gentle, soft. No, he couldn’t hear her. He didn’t want to. She would bring him back, and Kevin just wanted to float.

“Kevin, you’re sitting on a bean back chair. Can you feel it? Can you feel the fibers, the soft fuzz, the way the little beans shift to mold around you?”

He could. He could and he hated it. A noise escaped him, a desparate choked scream that ripped his throat raw, and suddenly he could feel everything, feel the throbbing of bruises where he’d fallen, the hot agony of his left hand, which was clenched tight, too tight, and he hated it, he hated his body, his prison, and he tried to thrash out of it, but that only shoved him deeper and why couldn’t he just _go_ and-

“Kevin. You’re in Palmetto. You’re in your dorm room. Andrew is here. I am here. Your coach and Nicky and Aaron are just outside in the hallway. Riko is not here. You are safe. Can you hear me? You don’t need to speak. You don’t need to do anything. Just breathe. Feel the beanbag. Feel the air as it fills up your lungs. In and out. In and out, hm? Yes, good. Just like that. In and out.”

And slowly, slowly, Betsy Dobson talked him back into himself.

“All right. You’re here. You’re here.”

He glared at her, hateful. She knelt next to him at eye level. Andrew was in the corner. Otherwise the room was empty and quiet.

Betsy met his gaze and nodded solemnly. “You’re here,” she said again, a simple statement that he already knew and hated.

“Can you talk?” she asked.

Kevin shook his head, curt.

“Okay. That’s good. That’s fine. We’ll just be here.”

Kevin shook his head again. He needed to go, needed to do _something_. He no longer had the all-encompassing need to get back to the Nest, but he couldn’t stay here.

“All right. Would you like to go to Abby’s house?”

Kevin nodded. That would be acceptable.

“Okay. Let’s get up. Can you walk?”

Another nod. Kevin hauled himself up. He swayed a bit, but stood. Andrew was suddenly at his side. Kevin didn’t know when that had happened.

“Would you like Andrew to come with us?”

Nod.

“Okay. I’ll drive.”

Kevin let the two of them lead him out into the hallway. The cousins and Wymack were there, and, strangely enough, Dan. She stood sentry across the hall from him, and he could see the relief in her eyes when Kevin emerged from his room.

Betsy forestalled any attempt at conversation with a wave of her hand. “Andrew and I have got him. We’re going to Abby’s. David, could you call to let her know we’re on our way?”

He nodded. “Is there anything we can-?”

“No.” Betsy cut him off. “Go to sleep. It’s late. That goes for all of you.” She sent her glance bouncing around all the others in the hall.

Dan sighed and nodded. “We’re- here for you, Kevin,” she said. “If you need anything.” It was awkward and forced, and Kevin nodded, miserable. She took that however she took it and disappeared into her room.

Nicky also made some attempt at emotional support, but Kevin couldn’t deal with all these hovering people and Andrew’s glare cut him off. Thankfully Betsy was already steering them down the hallway and out into her car.

The drive to Abby’s passed in silence.

Betsy managed to get rid of Abby before Kevin even got through the front door, which he was grateful for. He and Andrew slumped into seats at the kitchen table, and Betsy busied herself with the stove. A few minutes later, she set down three mugs on the table: hot chocolate for her and Andrew, tea for Kevin.

“I know you generally prefer to have no additives in your tea, but can I offer you some honey? It might help with your throat.”

Kevin shrugged, a do-what-you-will.

Betsy hummed in response and added a small spoon of honey. She stirred it in, metal spoon rasping against ceramic, then deposited the spoon in the sink. Kevin took the mug in both hands and hunched over it. It was hot, still just shy of boiling, and it was a calming, burning weight in his hands and in his chest. He breathed in the steam. It smelled like soil in a pine forest and smoke. He knew this tea, a pu-erh he’d bought with Abby some time ago, a fermented Chinese blend. They’d never had Chinese tea in the Nest.

Betsy and Andrew both drank their hot chocolates slowly and in silence.

A few minutes passed, and Kevin felt ready to take a sip. It was earthy and bitter, even with the honey, and made his mouth dry in a satisying way. He swallowed and the heat stayed in his throat, an aftertaste of sweetness. Slowly, he sipped his way through the whole cup.

“Another?” asked Betsy.

He nodded.

She set the pot to boil again.

“Andrew,” she asked softly. “Do you need to sleep?”

“I need to watch Kevin,” said Andrew in response. His voice was rough and tinged with nausea. Kevin glanced at the clock and realized in was well past midnight. How did that happen? The game had ended at 9:00.

“I’ve got him, Andrew. You’re of no use to Kevin if you collapse from withdrawal and sleep deprivation.”

Andrew exhaled, not quite a snort.

“Go,” said Kevin. His voice was hoarse and barely a whisper. He couldn’t manage any more than that, so he caught Andrew’s eye then nodded at Betsy.

Andrew stood and loomed over him, studying his face. Now that Kevin was looking, he could see the strain around Andrew’s lips, and the deep bags under his eyes. Finally Andrew nodded and pushed himself off the table. He looked at Betsy. “If anything happens to him-”

“I’ve got him, Andrew. You don’t need to carry everything on your shoulders.” Andrew’s brow creased, and he looked like he might change his mind, but Betsy just hummed and met his stare. “I’ve got him,” she said yet again. “You can have him back tomorrow.”

“Fine.” Andrew glared at Kevin and trudged out of the room.

There was quiet again for a while, then the whistle of a kettle.

“Thanks,” said Kevin, as Betsy set his mug back down in front of him.

Betsy acknowledged this with a little nod and hum, and sat in the chair next to him. She’d made herself a second mug of hot chocolate as well.

Ten minutes passed, then twenty. It wasn’t a bad silence. Forty minutes later, Kevin broke it.

“He’s right,” said Kevin.

“How so?” asked Betsy, her tone mildly curious as if they’d been chatting the whole time.

Kevin struggled for the words. “I never—I never understood how to hold back.”

“Hm. What do you mean by that?”

“When I play—I can’t—I can’t _not_ play. It’s all I have. All I _had_.” He corrected himself bitterly. “And now I can’t even have that.”

“Why not?”

He laughed and stared at her incredulously. “Because I’m broken.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because it’s true.” He held up his left hand. The scars shone white in the kitchen light, and his pinky and ring finger were obviously crooked. He tried to make a fist, but his fingers wouldn’t curl all the way closed. He focused, tried to force it, but eventually his hand just spasmed and twitched open again.

To her credit, Betsy didn’t look away. “Your hand was broken, yes. It may never heal fully. Why would that mean that _you_ are broken? You are not only your hand.”

“But I am,” Kevin hissed. “I am an Exy player, and an Exy player has two fucking functional hands, otherwise they are not an Exy player, and so I must be broken.”

“I see,” said Betsy. “So, if I understand what you are saying correctly, you see your worth as being directly tied to your performance as an Exy player, and-”

“It is,” Kevin interrupted her. “I don’t _see_ it that way. It’s a fact.”

“Okay,” Betsy accepted that with a shrug. “You understand that as fact. We’ll return to that, Kevin, all right? But, even accepting your premise as true-”

“It is.”

“-even accepting it as true,” Betsy ignored Kevin’s interruption, “you have been playing again for several weeks now. You are signed as a starting striker to a Division I team. That hardly seems broken to me.”

“It’s not the same,” said Kevin.

“Why not?”

“Because it just isn’t.” When Betsy raised an eyebrow at that explanation, Kevin sighed. “The Foxes are not the Ravens.”

“True,” said Betsy. “But you are still Kevin Day.”

“No, I’m _not_ ,” insisted Kevin. “I can’t—I can’t fit that anymore. I don’t fit.”

“Because your hand is broken.”

“Yes,” said Kevin. Then, “No. I don’t know.”

Betsy took another sip of her hot chocolate and waited for him to elaborate.

“Even if my hand wasn’t broken, even if I was playing for real, even if all that. . .” He waved his hand vaguely in the air, trying and failing to keep his impatience out of his voice. “Even _if_ , I still wouldn’t be good enough. I’m still broken, no matter what, because I’m the stupid idiot who went ahead and broke myself, and that’s not gone, that will never be gone, because it’s not just my hand, it’s me, because I don’t know my place, I don’t fit, I can’t fit, and I’ll never be good enough because I don’t know how to play.” His voice had almost risen to a shout by the end of that, but neither Abby nor Andrew came to check on them. Thank God for small miracles, Kevin thought bitterly.

“You broke yourself because you don’t know your place.” Betsy repeated his words back to him slowly. “That’s an interesting way of phrasing things.”

“Is it?” snapped Kevin.

“Yes,” said Betsy. She didn’t say anything else.

“Well, that’s how it is.” Kevin shouldn’t feel so defensive.

“Hm. When you say you don’t know your place, do you mean that there is a place that has been defined for you by someone else, and you can’t make yourself fit into it, or do you mean that you are looking for a place for yourself, and you can’t find it?”

“Neither,” said Kevin. “Both. I-” He struggled to speak, then curled into his seat. “Both, I guess. Yeah, both.” He was so tired.

Betsy nodded. “For a long time, ‘your place’”—there was no missing the airquotes in her voice—“was tied to Riko, and to Exy. And now you are struggling in trying to define yourself apart from that.”

“No,” said Kevin. “I _can’t_ define myself apart from that. It’s not possible. Without—Riko,”—he flinched when he said the name—“without him, without Exy, I can’t be me. I can’t be anything. I can’t be—” He shook his head.

“You can’t be Kevin Day,” supplied Betsy.

“Correct.” Kevin nodded and stared into his mug.

“And who is Kevin Day?” she asked. “What is that role?”

“He’s-” Kevin exhaled. “He’s a son of Exy. One of a pair. He’s the second-best striker in all of existence. On the court, he’s intense, he’s focused, he’s dedicated, and he is beloved by everyone and especially his brother, who is his twin and part of him just like his lungs are part of him.”

“And who is he off the court? Outside of Exy. What kind of person is he?”

“He’s not.” said Kevin. “He’s not a person. He’s a pet, a tool, a thing, a parasite. Take your pick. He isn’t—” Kevin shook his head—“He isn’t anything. He’s nothing.”

Betsy nodded. Her eyes were sad. “And that is the role you were forced to play for so much of your life. But it was never _you_ , Kevin, because you are a person.”

“Am I?” Kevin laughed bitterly.

“Yes,” said Betsy, as if it were that simple. “You were not allowed to be a person for a very long time, but that doesn’t stop you from being one.” She sighed. “Parasite,” she said. “That’s a new one. Why do you say that Kevin Day is a parasite?”

Kevin took another sip of tea while he considered it. The tea had faded to lukewarm, but the bittersweet taste was still comforting. “Because he can’t exist on his own. He’s just leeching off the tolerance of others. Without the Moriyamas, without Riko, he wouldn’t be anything. He can’t exist outside of that-that paradigm.”

“I see,” said Betsy. “It’s a symbiotic relationship. One can’t exist without the other. But it’s an imbalanced one.”

“Yes,” said Kevin.

“Tell me: why isn’t Riko the parasite in this relationship? Isn’t he the one that is leeching off of your talent, off of your fear, taking from you and not giving anything in return?”

A panicked whine escaped Kevin’s lips as he leaned away from her and shook his head in denial. “No,” he said. “No. No, no, no, no. No. That’s not how it is. It’s not.”

“Then explain to me how. Because from where I’m sitting, that looks like how it is. We’ve talked about that night, haven’t we, when Riko broke your hand?” She didn’t shy away or skirt around the topic, which was the only thing Kevin could like her for at that moment. “You were better at Exy than he was. You knew it, the ERC knew it, and he knew it. He is the one who benefitted off of your talent, who stole little happinesses—and bigger ones—away from your life. He took your friendship, your brotherhood, your kindness, and he hurt you in return. Why are you casting yourself as the parasite, when all evidence points to the opposite?”

“I’m not casting myself as anything,” Kevin cast out through clenched teeth. “I’m not doing anything. It’s just the truth.”

“It’s _a_ truth,” said Betsy. “It is the truth that Riko and Tetsuji and so many people have tried to force upon you. And for them, that may be all they ever see. But you and I both know that it’s not _the_ truth, Kevin. You told me the truth earlier, when you said that you could not fit into that role, into ‘Kevin Day.’ That isn’t who you are, no matter how much they may have tried to force you to believe it.”

Kevin shook his head, but Betsy kept going. “So, there is that role, and we know that is not you. We know that is not ‘your place.’” She spoke as if the matter were settled. “What we need to do now is figure out your new place. Outside of what was forced upon you. I will not lie to you, Kevin: it will take a great deal of work for you to get there, but you can do it. You are capable of being a person unconfined by the strictures of your past. Not wholly separate from, you understand, because you cannot be divorced from your own history, but unfettered by. You can get there, to a place that is flexible and free and utterly yours. There will be some overlap, of course, between who you were and who you may be. I imagine the new Kevin Day will also care a great deal about Exy-”

Kevin gave a halfhearted chuckle.

“But let’s not start there tonight. Tell me something, Kevin, that has nothing to do with Exy, nothing to do with Riko, or the Moriyamas, or your teammates, or anything even tangentially related to the sport.”

Kevin just stared at her, doubtful.

“Well, go on. Anything at all.”

He tried to think, tried to cast his mind about. “There isn’t anything,” he finally admitted. “There’s nothing, outside of that.” He had no friends save teammates, no family save Riko and his parents, and even they did not belong to him. Kayleigh belonged to the dead and Wymack belonged to the Foxes, and Kevin was not entitled to either of them. Besides, his bloodline fell under the ‘related to Exy’ category.

Betsy raised a skeptical eyebrow. “I did not say it had to be about you. I find it hard to believe that you could not come up with a single fact, a story, a fairytale, one thing that is not tied up in Exy or Riko.”

Kevin looked away, flushed. “I can’t.”

“What are you studying for finals?” she prompted.

“It’s just—it’s schoolwork. I have to do it so I can stay on the line, but it’s-it’s nothing.”

“Okay. You weren’t allowed to care about anything besides Exy, so you can’t care about it now. I don’t need you to tell me that it matters, just tell me what it is. You have a paper for history, yes? Instead of an exam?”

“Yes.”

“There we go. What are you writing it on?”

“The causes of the Bengal Famine of 1943.”

“Have you started your research for it yet?”

He nodded, once.

“Perfect. Tell me about the Bengal Famine.”

He eyed her warily.

“It’s okay, Kevin,” she said. “It’s okay if you care; it’s okay if you don’t care. This is just something you know about. For now, that’s all it is. I’m just going to listen. This isn’t a test, or a trick. It doesn’t matter if you can’t remember any dates and all of your facts are wrong. You can make up the facts if you need to. It doesn’t matter if it’s the other way and you remember every detail and can cite all your sources as you talk. It’s just a topic, and you’re gonna tell me about it, okay? For at least-” She glanced at the clock. It was 2:27am. “For at least five minutes. You can go longer than five minutes if you want, and I’ll keep listening all night, but you just need to talk about something related to the Bengal Famine for at least five minutes, okay?”

Kevin shifted in his seat. He felt an odd ache in his chest. “I need to gather my thoughts,” he mumbled.

“Of course. We’ll start whenever you’re ready. More tea?”

He shook his head.

She nodded, and got them each a glass of water while Kevin thought.

He took a deep breath. “Okay. The Mughal Empire controlled much of what is modern-day India, including Bengal, from the 16th century until the British East India Company took control in 1757 after the Battle of Plassey.” Kevin paused, suddenly uncertain. “I could start earlier, I guess. My essay starts earlier, with kind of a broad overview of how things stood. There’s a lot of context things, of like, how the Mughals came to power and societal structures, pre-existing class and caste and religious divides, and why the British were there in the first place. Well, colonialism, obviously, but the underlying structural ideas of power and demand for resources can be traced-” He cut himself off. “How much context do you want?”

Betsy shrugged. “However much you want to give me.”

Kevin chewed his lip. “We can gloss over the context. It’s important, you understand, but it’s not as immediately relevant to the famine itself. We can skip over the Battle of Plassey, too.”

Betsy nodded.

Kevin felt shaky. It took him a while to place the feeling. He was nervous. Nervous, but not scared. It had been a long time since he’d felt anything other than utter confidence or absolute, gut-wrenching fear.There was no room in his life for middle feelings. He swallowed. “So, um, it’s super fertile—Bengal, that is. There are three main growing seasons, and um, the key crop is rice. It’s the staple food. Everybody eats it. Under the Mughals, there’s a land ownership system in place where people—where farmers, the people who actually farm the land, they own the land. They own the land, and they pay taxes to their local rulers, but even if they don’t pay their taxes, they still own the land. But then when the British East India Company takes over, they change the system so that if you don’t pay your taxes, then they can repossess your land. Or possess it, I guess? They never had it before. I’m telling this all wrong.”

“There is no right or wrong, Kevin.”

“There is, though. And I’m doing it wrong.”

“Not in this space. And not in history, either. What was it you said a few weeks ago? ‘There’s too much nuance and bias for truth to matter a single fuck in this class’?”

Kevin shrugged, resentful. He had said that.

When he didn’t pick up again, she prodded him. “You were talking about systems of land ownership, and how that changed under the British.”

Kevin scowled, but relented. “Yes. Under the new system, the British East India Company institute this practice where you’re responsible for—for those around you. Your peers. So, if they don’t submit their full quota, you have to work harder to make up for it. For the good of the Company. Accountability.”

“Mm-hm.”

“This creates an entrenched system of power, with the British at the top and an underclass of Indian farmers, many of whom are now malnourished, at the bottom. By the time the actual British take over in the mid-1800s—that’s the start of the British Raj in 1858 after the First War of Indian Independence, or the Revolt of 1857, or there’s a significant debate over the nomenclature—” He cut himself off. “This is also unnecessary context. You’re not interested in that.”

“I’m interested in whatever you’re interested in telling me, Kevin. You’re doing great. Keep going.”

Kevin almost whined, and sent a desperate look at the clock. Two more minutes. He didn’t like this, he didn’t like this at all, it felt like he was baring his soul to Betsy, but why should it feel like that, it was just a stupid history paper, and-

“Kevin, you’re doing fine. You’re doing great. Breathe. Now, you were telling me that there was an entrenched system of power, with the British at the top and the Indian farmers at the bottom, yes?”

“Yes.” Kevin nodded. “Yes. And the British start philosophizing that this is the natural order of things. There’s this guy, James Mill—he’s the father of the really famous philosopher Mill—who says that ‘poverty is inherent to Indian culture,’ mainly basing it on the fact that previous legal codes, before the British, have systems in place to ensure that resources are allocated fairly during drought and famine, which he takes as evidence that Indians must naturally always be starving and subjugated. He has this quote, let me think of it.” Kevin closed his eyes and tilted his head back. “‘In truth, the Hindoo, like the eunuch, excels in the qualities of a slave.’”

Betsy huffed in horrified amusement.

“Exactly,” said Kevin. “It’s all connected to this broader, world-wide racial justification of slavery and rape and pillage that also served as justification of the American slave trade, and—well, that’s a bit off-topic. But you have this narrative of justified subjugation that takes root and sort of narrows the way that people can act, can even conceptialize of acting, especially once it’s been entrenched for so long.”

Betsy nodded, following.

“This is all backdrop; it’s all context. I’m trying to get through the context as quickly as possible, but it’s just kind of impossible to talk about the reasons without the context.”

“It’s generally hard to understand anything outside of its context,” agreed Betsy, “especially something so complex and traumatic rooted in years of systematic abuse. Like a famine.”

“Right,” said Kevin. “Definitely. And it’s all complicated by, well, by a bunch of different things, because the system _works_ , it works and it allows for huge technological advancements and a truly international world and-” He shook himself, tried to stay on-track. “But let’s talk about World War I. And World War II, but first World War I because it came first.”

Betsy gestured for him to continue.

“Okay, so, the British really depended on the Indian subcontinent in order to actually be able to wage such a large-scale conflict. They took about 1.3 million soldiers and vast amounts of money and food, largely from Bengal. The food, especially, which did lead to shortages and starvation. At the time, there was an understanding in India, and understanding that was reinforced by the British, that in exchange for this sacrifice, they would be rewarded with increased or even full autonomy and self-governance. _Swaraj_ , is the word. Self-rule. You have people, like Gandhi, I mean, not _like_ Gandhi— _actually_ Gandhi, not that he’s the be-all end-all, but he is famous—and a lot of other people, they all supported the war effort because they were promised that it would be worth it, a necessary pain.”

“But it wasn’t. The British lied, nothing really got better after World War I. Um, I’m gonna skip over a bunch of stuff and increased dissent and oppression and suppression and, um, there’s actually a lot of stuff, but I’m going to go into World War II now.”

“Of course.” Betsy was still leaning forward, politely interested.

Kevin nodded. They were getting into it now. “Wait.” He backtracked, “There’s one more thing you should know about World War I: Britain blockaded Germany from a lot of its food supply, fairly successfully, so a lot of Germans starved, and now the British are worried that the Germans are gonna try to do the same thing to them.”

“Okay,” said Betsy. “I’m still following.”

“So, World War II: the British basically did the same thing all over again in India. Except this time it was worse. India and Britain entered into this agreement in 1940, where they would split the cost of the war between them. The details aren’t super relevant, and it almost doesn’t matter, because the British were basically bankrupt and couldn’t afford anything anyway. So they paid in promises. Credit, trust, lies, pieces of meaningless paper. Whatever you want to call it. Enough of them so that Britain owed India almost enough for her to buy her own freedom. Which, you know, is not ideal for the British.”

“I imagine not,” said Betsy. “From what you’ve told me, they built their name and their power upon the exploited labor and talents of someone else, and created a twisted philosophy in order to keep everyone thinking that this is the morally right way of things. It would completely undermine their entire narrative, completely deligitimize their place in the world, for the true power of their ‘slaves’ to be known.”

“Exactly,” said Kevin, pleased. Betsy got it. “Also they’re worried about Germany getting back at them for starving them in World War I, so the British want to stockpile food in the UK.”

“Fear for your own misfortune is hardly an excuse for starving someone else.”

“No,” agreed Kevin, “but it’s a reason.” He paused and frowned. “And they are the good guys; they’re fighting the Nazis. They need resources to do that. I mean, it’s complicated.”

Betsy hummed. “I’m not sure I agree with that sentiment. One horrific wrong does not justify another, especially one committed against an unrelated, innocent people.”

Kevin frowned. “3.5 million dead in the Bengal famine, 6 million in the Holocaust. And you could argue that it wasn’t really intentional, what the British did. The Nazis were legitimately evil.”

Betsy considered that, but shook her head. “Suffering is not a contest. Just because one person’s, or people’s, suffering was truly terrible doesn’t delegitimize the pain of someone else. There is no excuse for someone in such a position of power to purposefully or negligently inflict any level of torture upon those they held power over, no matter how scared they were or sure of the righteousness of their cause.”

“Mm.” Kevin wasn’t even sure if he disagreed with her, but he was suddenly too tired for this conversation. He glanced at the clock. It was almost 3:00am. “I’d like to stop now,” he said. They hadn’t even gotten into the famine itself, but Kevin just couldn’t do this anymore.

If Betsy found the abrupt end to their conversation jarring, she didn’t show it. “Yes, of course. Will you be all right to get to bed?”

He nodded. “Thanks.”

“Always, Kevin,” she said. “Get some rest; I’ve got the dishes. Call me any time you need, yes? You have my number.”

“Okay,” he said, voice low. He wasn’t sure if he’d take her up on it. He shuffled towards the room he and Andrew shared at Abby’s.

“And, Kevin?” Betsy’s

“Yeah?”

“Thank you for sharing your history paper with me.” She seemed earnestly grateful.

“It’s nothing,” he brushed it off. “It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t matter.”

“Nonetheless, thank you.”

Kevin shifted, uncomfortable, in the hallway. He mumbled something along the lines of “yeah, sure, it’s fine I guess.”

She nodded and smiled. “Good night, Kevin.”

“Yeah,” he said, “night.”

Andrew was passed out in a drug-induced coma, unaware to all the world. Kevin curled up tight in the bed next to his without bothering to change out of his jeans. As he got comfortable, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out. Two new texts from an unsaved number.

It didn’t matter. Kevin had that number memorized, and the truncated French messages could have only come from one person.

2:46AM: jespere ke ca en vaut la peine pk peh c pa ce ke je vois

3:02AM: tu me manques*

Kevin had texted Jean his new number months ago, but he’d never heard back. He didn’t know what had prompted these texts tonight, or what Riko had done to Jean tonight while Kevin was enjoying his pity party in the kitchen. He stared at the screen, unsleeping and unmoving, until it went black on its own. He stayed like that for the rest of the night, until well after the sun came up and he finally fell into the undeserved respite of sleep.

* * *

*Translation:

2:46AM: hope it was worth it bcs tbh from where im standing it isnt

3:02AM: i miss you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The French in non-textspeak: J’espère que ça en vaut la peine, par-ce que pour être honnête ce n'est pas ce que je vois. Tu me manques. (Literally: I hope that it is worth the penalty, because, to be honest, that is not what I see. I miss you.)
> 
> I’m fairly certain I got the actual french somewhat ok, but not sure at all about the text-speak. Please let me know if you know more than I do!!


	6. The Replacement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neil Josten arrives at Palmetto.

Kevin slowed his sprint to a jog, then a walk, and finally came to rest at the bench to grab some water. Andrew smirked and saluted him from where he was lying on the bench with a 24-pack of mini ice-cream cones, the kind with chocolate in the bottom. Kevin ignored him. Even the goalie’s obnoxious snacking couldn’t bring him down today. The sun was hot and Kevin was covered with a thin sheen of sweat and sunscreen. His eyes stung and there was gravel dug into his knees from when he’d fallen earlier. His muscles were pleasantly tired and sore, and his left hand only twinged a little bit at the base of his racquet.

He grinned and threw his head back, soaked in the glory. It had taken him almost six weeks to modify all of the Raven passing drills so he could do them alone, just him and the cones and the wall. Another month to figure out how to incorporate footwork and dodging without an opponent. And almost four months before he felt comfortable running them with his right hand.

Today’s run hadn’t been perfect, but it was passable. More than that, it felt right. _He_ felt right in a way he hadn’t in months, maybe years. Like when they’d first been old enough to join in real scrimmages with the Ravens, towards the end of middle school, and Kevin’s lungs had burned with a joyful ache he couldn’t name, so certain that this was where he should be, his mother’s soul in his racquet and his brother at his side.

Today was so good that even the thought of Riko didn’t bring him down, just intensified the ache in his chest and the humming of Exy in his bones. This afternoon Josten would come, and Kevin would no longer have to play alone. He finished his water, then jogged around collecting cones and balls to cool down.

After a quick shower, Andrew drove them back to Abby’s. Abby herself was gone at the moment, running errands or something in preparation for Josten’s arrival. Andrew was unusually quiet on the drive back, but Kevin didn’t clock it until later when he turned off the TV show he’d been watching and pushed himself off the couch.

“Andrew?” asked Kevin, “Where are you going?”

Andrew shushed him but didn’t otherwise respond.

Kevin frowned and followed him. He made a quick stop in their room to grab something before he opened the door to Nicky and Aaron’s room without knocking.

“Jesus-” Aaron hissed, then changed that to an angry glare when he saw his twin in the doorway.

Nicky looked up from his phone in confusion. “Andrew, what’s-”

“Coach asked you to pick up the fish from the airport,” Andrew stated.

“Um, yeah, but-”

“I will be driving him.”

Nicky laughed uncomfortably. “Pretty sure that’s a good way to scare him off, seeing as how you full-on hit him with a racket last time you two interacted. Plus Coach’ll be mad at me.”

“Sounds like not my problem.”

Nicky sent a desperate look towards Aaron, who ignored him. “Coach’ll be mad at you too if you tear up the new guy, and Abby said she’d block our stadium privileges if we broke him this summer.” The words were ostensibly for Andrew, but he sent Kevin a pleading look as he spoke.

“I will not break him,” Andrew scoffed. “I will simply get his measure.”

Kevin grimaced. Nicky’s transparent plea did have some merit. “It’s not ideal. If Coach catches on-”

Andrew ignored him and instead flicked a look at Aaron. “We will be doing the twin thing.” He dropped the contents of his hands on the floor in front of Aaron. Black cloth, Kevin could see now: Andrew’s clothes.

Aaron stiffened and leaned away from the pile of clothes. “Will we?” he said, bitter and low under his breath.

“Yes,” said Andrew. “Give me your wallet.”

Aaron turned to face his twin. “Are you sure you’re not planning on breaking him? Because the last time you-” He cut himself off.

Andrew raised an eyebrow, a somewhat amused expression playing across his face. “The last time I what?”

Aaron muttered something in German.

Andrew barked a laugh and replied in the same language, and Aaron snapped something at him in response.

Nicky had gone very still, and was watching them with white lips.

Kevin couldn’t quite track the conversation, but the air in the room had gone deadly.

“Nothing that will lose us our stadium privileges, Andrew,” he said, hoping to break the tension.

Andrew spun around, looking all the world like he’d forgotten about Kevin’s existence. He blinked, took a second to recalibrate. “Of course not.” He smiled, serene and dangerous. “I know how much the stickball means to you, oh Queen of Exy.”

Andrew ignored Kevin’s glare, focus back on Aaron, who reluctantly opened his wallet and slapped his driver’s license into Andrew’s hand.

Andrew nodded, like it’d all been settled. He brushed past Kevin on the way to the door and deposited a pill bottle into Kevin’s hands. “The twin thing,” he said again, pointing to the clothes on the floor, before he strode out the door.

Kevin frowned, trying to figure out what had just happened. 

He found himself following Andrew almost without any thought, like he was tugged to follow in the smaller man’s orbit.

Andrew stopped him just before the front door with a steady hand on his chest. “I will not be able to vet him properly if you are there.”

Kevin held himself stiffly and nodded once. He could do this. He’d been apart from Andrew since leaving the nest, but never with more than a campus between them. Yes, Aaron and Nicky were upstairs, so he wasn’t alone, but it wasn’t the same. Ten years he’d been tied to Riko, never more than a room apart, no doors, no walls, no anything between them, and Andrew’s steady weight was a poor replacement for that, but he was _there_ , and solid in a way Riko never had been, and now Kevin’s heart was beating much too fast at the thought of any distance between them at all.

Andrew tapped Kevin’s breastbone in time with his heart, bringing him back to the present. “I will be back,” he said. “And you will stay with Aaron and Nicky. You will meet me at Coach’s when I’ve fetched our new toy.”

Kevin swallowed. He dug the medicine bottle out of his pocket. “You should take this. Just in case.”

“No.” Andrew’s response was immediate.

“Andrew-” _I worry about you. I don’t want you to get sick and swerve off the road. I don’t want you to get pulled over and arrested for being sober. I can’t live if you’re not next to me. If you die, there’s no one else who cares enough to tape me together when I break again_. “Don’t be stupid.”

“No,” he said again, and Kevin hated it but he shoved the bottle back into his pocket.

Andrew frowned, obviously not satisfied, and caught Kevin’s gaze in his own steely eyes. “This is necessary. A calculated risk. I am watching your back, and it is too early for Riko to make his next move. Unless, of course, the newbie _is_ his move, in which case it is good that I am evaluating him.”

Kevin grimaced, because he knew it was true. He searched Andrew’s eyes for something—some flickering doubt, some hesitation or fear—but found only calm certainty. “Okay,” he said.

Andrew nodded slowly and turned his next tap into a gentle shove. “Go to Nicky and Aaron.”

Kevin moved sluggishly, but he followed the order, feeling much calmer than he had a few seconds ago. He heard the engine of the GS flare, and then tires squealed as Andrew pulled out of the drive in an idiotic maneuver.

Kevin wrapped his hand around the bottle in his pocket, the plastic of the cap cutting into his scars. “He will come back,” he said, air barely ghosting across his vocal cords, and Kevin very deliberately did not think of his mother and her careless ease behind the wheel, or about Tilda Minyard and the shatter of glass and tires.

He went upstairs to Nicky and Aaron’s room and sat on the bed next to Nicky.

Aaron had already changed into Andrew’s clothes, and had murder written plainly across his face.

“So…” said Nicky. “We have like, an hour or so kill. Wanna play TF2?”

“No,” said Kevin.

“No,” said Aaron, still looking homicidal.

“O—kay,” said Nicky. There was a long moment of silence. “So…whaddaya think Andrew’s gonna do to the new guy?”

Kevin just looked at him.

“Aaron, any guesses?”

“No.”

“Ugh, you guys are the wooorst. Don’t tell me you don’t have any theories? You’re not even the least bit curious?”

Kevin took a breath. In and out. He rubbed his thumb over his chest, right where Andrew had tapped him. “He will vet Josten, discover whether or not he is a threat to our safety.” _To my safety_. “And he will not go any further than that.” _Because he said he wouldn’t get my stadium rights revoked_. Kevin was surprised to realize that he believed the words coming out of his mouth. Since when had he started taking Andrew at face value?

“Yeah, but how will he do it, do you think? Will we need to do any damage control on our end? Like, will the new kid hate us before he even gets here?”

“Pretty sure he already hates us if he has any sense,” said Aaron.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Kevin. “He will play no matter what his opinions are.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Nicky protested. “I mean, don’t either of you even care a little bit about making friends on the team? Having someone else to hang out with?”

“No,” said Aaron and Kevin at the same time. Aaron startled and glared at Kevin, and Kevin matched it with a sneer. Kevin did not like being compared to Aaron. Kevin didn’t make friends because friends were liabilities that could only be used to compromise you. Aaron didn’t make friends because he was an asshole who didn’t understand the opportunities he’d been given.

“God, you two are depressing. Just for the record, when Andrew is more interested in getting to know the new kid than you are, it’s not a good sign.”

“Andrew isn’t making friends with the new kid,” Aaron objected. “He’s assessing his threat level.”

“Oh my god, you sound like a video game character.” Nicky groaned. “Like a really boring, unsociable NPC. ‘Assessing his threat level.’” He rolled his eyes.

“It is in accurate statement,” Kevin pointed out. “Andrew doesn’t do friends.”

Nicky raised an eyebrow. “He’s got you.”

“We are not friends,” said Kevin, a simple fact.

“Then what do you call your weird codependent buddy-buddy thing?” Nicky challenged.

Kevin thought for a moment. “Allies,” he said.

“Seriously?” Nicky’s tone was extremely judgmental.

Kevin shrugged. “We have an agreement. It is not monetary in nature, so we are not business partners, and Andrew does not give enough of a fuck to deserve to be called my teammate, but we are on the same side of this war and I trust him to have my back as long as I hold up my end of the arrangement.” He nodded. “Textbook allies.”

Nicky snorted in disbelief. “Oh, you poor child. Not all human relationships have to be transactional, you know.”

Kevin shrugged rather than argue the point.

Aaron scowled at some undeterminable point on the floor.

Nicky sighed loudly and turned back to his phone, presumably texting Erik.

The three of them sat in silence for a while, the only noise being the gentle tap-tap-tap of Nicky’s thumb against the screen.

Then Nicky groaned and pushed himself up. “Andrew wants us to meet him at Coach’s. They’re twenty minutes away.”

Kevin nodded and he and Aaron filed out after Nicky. It was only a ten minute walk to Coach’s, and they settled in on the sidewalk to wait.

“Tell me when they pull in,” said Aaron, slumping on the ground and tucking his head under his arms. “I don’t want to go all manic psycho until I have to.”

They didn’t have to wait long, and Nicky kicked Aaron into alertness at the first sign of the black GS pulling into the parking lot.

Nicky also handled the introductions, chatting away at Josten and blocking his view of Aaron and Andrew switching back to their rightful places. Now that Aaron didn’t have to fake a smile, he already looked tired of the whole thing, and Kevin could see the nausea tightening around Andrew’s forced grin.

Nicky manhandled Josten past the three of them, making sure he didn’t look too closely at the newly-switched twins, and babbled some kind of tour spiel as he did. Kevin had never thought that Nicky was a good player, but he had a skill for manipulating and misdirecting people that allowed him to be somewhat of an asset to the team. It was useful for the press, and for covering for Andrew and Kevin, and so Kevin tolerated him.

Andrew said something to Aaron to needle him, but Kevin was used to their sniping and paid it no mind. He studied Josten in the elevator’s mirror as they rode up. He was tense, but not seriously shaken. Not yet at least. Andrew had kept his word.

It was odd, him only having one bag, but then again Kevin had come with even less, just the clothes on his back. Those hadn’t even technically been his. Everything he’d ever ‘owned’, everything he’d ever worn, all his sponsorship deals, those all belonged to the Moriyamas. He doubted Josten had come to Palmetto to take refuge from being basically enslaved by an offshoot of the Yakuza, though, so Josten’s lack of material possessions made less sense than Kevin’s had.

Kevin narrowed his eyes. They’d need to get him a new wardrobe; champions needed to look good and put together at all times, and the ratty jeans and faded T-shirt Josten was currently sporting wouldn’t cut it. Kevin made a mental note to ask Coach for his p-card for a shopping trip; Josten definitely didn’t have the money for proper attire.

Aaron led the way to Wymack’s apartment and dug around for the key. Josten stalled when they opened the door, and only moved when Andrew stepped up beside him, ice-pale and threatening.

The cousins bantered about in German, obviously discussing Josten, and Kevin sidled up to Andrew and tapped his pocket where the pills were waiting. Andrew glanced up at him and gave a tight shake of his head, then shot a glance at Nicky. _Distract him_.

Nicky dutifully led their new striker away on a tour, and Andrew slid a knife into the door of the liquor cabinet to pop it open as soon as they were out of sight.

“Just take them,” Kevin hissed at him.

Andrew shook his head. “There’s something off about him.” He glared at the door to Wymack’s office, where Nicky and Andrew were keeping Josten occupied.

Kevin frowned. “You’re going to throw up if you don’t take them soon. Figure him out later.”

“He’s off balance _now_ ,” Andrew argued.

Kevin pressed his lips together to stop any angry words. Instead, he pushed the pill bottle into Andrew’s pocket.

Andrew _growled_ at him. “I said no.”

“Then don’t take them,” Kevin snapped.

Andrew cracked the whiskey open with a violent twist. “Fine.” He downed a healthy swallow of liquor straight from the bottle. “I will make sure he knows where he stands, and then I will take the happy pills. Let’s go.”

Kevin rolled his eyes, but followed Andrew into the Coach’s office to collect the others.

Josten’s eyes narrowed suspiciously as Nicky started to hustle him out. He pointed at the bottle in Andrew’s hand and asked about it, either stalling or joking or genuinely curious. Kevin tried to see what Andrew found so suspicious about the guy and failed.

Kevin could hear the strain behind the fake amusement in Andrew’s reply, but he doubted anyone else would be able to tell, even Nicky or Aaron. Andrew was a damn good liar when he wanted to be. It was only after months of living at his side that Kevin could read him so well.

“Will you tell Coach on us?” Andrew asked mockingly. “So much for being a team player. I guess you really are a Fox."

“No,” said Josten, meeting Andrew’s gaze. “but I would ask him why you're not medicated."

 _Wait. What?_ Kevin blinked. How in the hell did Josten figure that one out?

Aaron and Nicky seemed stunned, and went back and forth in German for a bit before Josten interrupted them. “I’d prefer an answer in English.”

Then Andrew took over. He got in Josten’s space and the two miniature men sized up against each other. It would almost have been funny, except Kevin knew that the promise of real blood lurked behind those words.

Their posturing was cut off by the sound of the doorknob rattling. Andrew spun and handed the whiskey to Kevin. He went out to distract coach, and Kevin used Aaron’s body to block any view of the bottle as the three of them sauntered out of the apartment.

Coach made smalltalk with their new striker, and Josten didn’t rat them out. No mentions of their airport stunt, the whiskey, or Andrew’s medication. That was something. He was obviously smart enough to realize how things worked around here, or at the very least not stupid enough to snitch in front of them.

As soon as he could finagle it, Andrew led Kevin and Aaron down the hall. Coach would catch onto Andrew’s sobriety soon if he hadn’t already, and that would not be ideal. Kevin handed the whiskey back to Andrew and he downed a few more swallows, grimacing.

Nicky joined them a moment later, and Andrew sent him a glare. “No Neil?”

“He’s finding someplace in Coach’s apartment to stash his stuff,” Nicky explained. “Coach kicked me out when he started panicking and hiding it badly. That boy is ten pounds of issues in a five-pound bag, I swear to God. That’s like, the third time in five minutes he’s had a mini mental breakdown.”

“Hm.” Andrew stared at the door to Wymack’s apartment, evaluating, then pasted on an empty smile when Neil and Coach finally appeared.

Andrew gave Neil the proper welcoming speech in the elevator down. All the standard stuff, _don’t cross me, do what I say, Kevin is annoying but only I get to mess with him_. He couldn’t reinforce those words with actions, not when Abby and Coach were both watching them so closely, but for now it would have to do.

They gave Josten a quick tour of the court, and Andrew _finally_ took his meds.

Satisfied that Andrew would survive his crash, Kevin pointed Josten to the stadium. He watched as the striker breathed in the air of the arena, confident once more in his decision to recruit the amateur. Yes, this was a _player_ standing in front of him. Kevin had almost forgotten in the wake of Andrew’s suspicions and Josten’s stubborn reluctance to sign, but there was a reason Kevin had chosen this boy to be his replacement.

Neil looked back at him, and Kevin knew he understood. “Get him his gear,” he ordered. Kevin needed to see how much remedial work their newest player required. There was no doubt he’d need a lot before he was suitable, but Kevin was confident in his ability to get him there.

He waited in the inner ring for his players to return and watched as Nicky, Aaron, and Neil walked onto the court. Neil gripped his keys reverently as he opened the home-court entrance, and Kevin was pleased he was giving this the court the proper amount of respect. Then he and Nicky stood around gossiping. Kevin banged on the glass to bring them back to what was important.

They went through a few drills and a mock scrimmage, and Kevin kept his focus on Neil. He wasn’t good enough, barely managing to get by Nicky and Aaron, who were neither of them great players, but—that spark, that drive that Kevin had seen in the clips—that was still there.

He grabbed his racquet and made a list of drills in his head for night practice. It helped him think, having a racquet in hand, and he needed to refamiliarize himself with the feel of it. Though it no longer felt unnatural to hold his racket right-handed, he had spent almost two-thirds of his life holding an Exy racket with his left hand. Even before his mother died, he’d practiced every day. After, the only reason he wouldn’t have his racquet in hand would be because he was eating, interviewing, attending class, or entertaining Riko. His racquet had been an extension of his left arm, never more than a few feet away and as much a part of him as any of his other limbs. While he still could manage much of the technical aspects of Exy with his right hand, that easy fluidity still eluded him. 

Josten, however, was in a completely different boat. He didn’t even the technical proficiency he would need to compete. It was unacceptable, and entirely wrong that he’d lacked proper training up to this point when it was so clear there was real talent somewhere under there. They’d need to work on accuracy, obviously, and something to up his stamina. A technical knowledge of his body and the court. And he needed discipline. Now, he threw himself into the drills, but there was no sense of his limits, no knowledge of when to pace himself and when to hold back. He didn’t even know how long they would practice, and was going all-out already. It was sloppy, and dangerous. And there was something else… _off_ about his game. Kevin frowned, trying to figure out what it was.

Andrew joined him towards the end of their practice. He lay down on the bench with the whiskey in his hand. Kevin looked at him, then back to Neil. Two talented players, both of whom had refused to play with him, both of whom were nevertheless here. Both of whom did not play like they deserved to be on the court.

He vocalized this thought to Andrew. “Obviously you are different, but there is something the same.”

Andrew snorted. “Obviously. I am not a maniac junkie obsessed with stickball.”

“There is something the same,” Kevin insisted. “At that must be cut out. It is unacceptable on my court.” He twisted his racquet in frustration. “But I can’t figure out what it is.”

Andrew sighed, and sat up to watch the scrimmage. “I’m only doing this to prove that I have nothing in common with that deluded weasel.”

Kevin said nothing; he knew better than to interrupt Andrew when he was actually putting effort into something.

Five minutes later, Andrew said, “He’s not playing for the future. That’s what’s the same. Of course, he hasn’t yet realized it’s not worth playing for the present either, so in that way he’s much stupider than me.” With that, he sunk back onto his back and started playing catch with himself.

Kevin swore under his breath. Andrew was right, and that defeatist attitude was not something as easily untrained as sloppy footwork. “It’s not a good thing, Andrew, your apathy. It holds you back, prevents you from being the star you could be.”

“Wow, Kev, I’ve never heard you say that before. Please, continue to tell me all about how I should care so much about the pathetic game you’ve made the center of your life instead of having any kind of personality or backbone.”

“That attitude is also unacceptable. I will have to beat it out of Josten.”

“Oooh, that sounds fun.”

Kevin cut him a withering glance. “Verbally. He will be no good on the court if we injure his body.”

“Less fun.” Andrew sighed. “But still potentially entertaining. Can’t break the body, so we’ll break the soul, huh, Kev? I guess it worked on you.”

“Shut up.”

Andrew laughed. “Fine. But only because this is not a conversation for idle ears.”

Sure enough, Aaron, Nicky, and Neil were filing off the court. Neil stayed behind when Kevin caught his eye.

Kevin considered him. “This is going to be a very long season.”

"I told you I wasn't ready,” Josten brushed him off.

Kevin’s jaw tightened. “You also said you wouldn't play with me, but here you are." He ignored the fact that he was the one who had refused to play with them today. Except for Andrew, who would come around once the meds were flushed out of his system, Kevin did not play with those who did not aim to be the best. He had thought Josten would be one of those, but Andrew’s observations now circled in his mind and cast it all into doubt.

He yanked Josten towards him using the netting of his racquet and met his eyes through the strings.

"If you won't play with me, you'll play for me," Kevin said. "You're never going to get there on your own, so give your game to me." _I will_ make _you into someone with a future, because I can see that it’s there even if you can’t_.

Josten just looked confused. ”Where is 'there'?"

Kevin scoffed. "If you can't figure that out there's no helping you.”

Josten looked back at him, the doubt plain on his face. So he knew where ‘there’ was, he just didn’t see himself getting there. Kevin thought back to his first interaction with the striker and his unwillingness to share the court with a champion. A terminal case of low self-esteem, he’d thought then, and that was the only explanation that made sense now.

That would not do. Kevin covered Josten’s eyes with his free hand. “Forget the stadium. Forget the Foxes and your useless high school team and your family.” _The trappings are irrelevant, and so is your trauma_. “See it the only way it really matters, where Exy is the only road to take. What do you see?”

Josten’s face twisted into an incredulous laugh, which he managed not to vocalize.

Kevin tugged his racquet in frustration. “Focus.”

Josten sighed, but he did focus. His eyes closed behind Kevin’s palm, and Kevin dropped his hand.

Josten wasn’t an easy read, but all of Kevin’s energy was focused in on him as the boy flickered through emotions. Bitterness, hope, fear. And then an emotion Kevin had no name for but he knew in his soul and his bones because it always lived in his body. A yearning so strong that nothing else mattered, painted on a backdrop of pain and fear that it never could be.

Neil opened his eyes, and it was like looking into a mirror, though one a foot shorter than him. “You,” he said simply, and Kevin knew he had him.

He tugged the racquet away. “Tell me I can have your game.”

“Take it.” There was still doubt in there somewhere, but this was more than enough to work with.

He sent a satisfied look to Andrew. “Neil understands.”

Andrew, of course, did not acknowledge the message and brushed it off with a joke. He pushed himself up into Neil’s space and took a long swig of whiskey. “Neil! Hello. We meet again.”

"We met earlier," said Neil. "If this is another trick, just let it go."

Andrew dismissed his suspicions with an easy taunt.

“He's high,” Kevin confirmed. “He tells me when he's sober, so I always know,” he added, deciding to show Neil a little bit of trust and hoping for a bit in return. "How did you figure it out?"

Neil shrugged. “They're twins, but they're not the same. One of them hates your obsession with Exy while the other couldn't care less."

Three guesses for which one’s which, and the first two don’t count. Kevin looked at Andrew, smug. If the rookie could read Andrew’s hatred so easily after less than an hour of knowing him, it was indisputable that Andrew cared. Hate might not be a positive emotion, but it was a strong one and much more easily be morphed into desire than the apathy Andrew claimed to have.

Andrew missed Kevin’s self-congratulatory gaze because he was too busy deflecting onto Neil. No matter. He let Andrew lead them into the locker room, where Neil sat down and showed no sign of changing out. He was covered in sweat and his armor was plastered to his skin, but he seemed content to just…sit.

Kevin stared down at him, waiting for him to get moving. Josten didn’t seem to notice that he was failing all of the rules of locker rooms and polite society everywhere, so Kevin eventually had to spell it out for him. ”We're not taking you by Abby's like that," he said. "Wash up."

Of course, Josten couldn’t just shower like a normal person. “I won't shower with the team," he said. "I'll wait, and if you don't want to wait on me, just go on ahead. I'll find my way there from here."

That was ridiculous, for so many reasons. Neil didn’t even know where Abby’s house was, let alone how to properly lock up the court. And he didn’t have a car to drive there.

"Nicky going to be a problem for you?" Andrew asked. 

Josten leaned back defensively. “It's not about Nicky. It's about my privacy."

"Get over it,” Kevin snapped. Neil had _just_ given him his game, and was already balking at the most basic of things. “You can't be shy if you're going to be a star."

Andrew leaned toward Kevin and stage-whispered, “He has to hide his ouches, Kevin.”

Kevin frowned. Why would that be relevant? Kevin had seen plenty of injuries in his time at the Nest. There was nothing that would surprise him anymore.

“I broke into Coach's cabinet and read his files,” Andrew continued, unaware or uncaring of Kevin’s disinterest. “Bruises, you think, or scars? I think scars, too. Can't be bruises if his parents aren't around to beat him, right?"

Neil had gone white with either fury or fear. "What did you just say?"

Kevin ignored him. “I don't care," he said to Andrew. This was taking too long.

Andrew, in turn, ignored Kevin and explained how the showers worked to Neil.

Neil shot to his feet, furious, the implications of what Andrew had said finally catching up to him. ”You had no right to read my file!"

Andrew laughed, obviously delighted to have struck a nerve, and told Neil how he’d come to that conclusion. “But I'm right, aren't I?" he finished, baiting the other man.

Neil took a deep breath and grit his teeth, then spun around and stormed off to the showers. Andrew followed at his heels.

A few moments later, Andrew returned, obviously done toying with the new recruit. “Kevin, car,” he said.

Kevin followed him out wordlessly to the parking lot, and stood facing him while Andrew boosted himself up to sit cross-legged on the hood of the car.

“I don’t trust him,” said Andrew. “His pieces don’t add up.”

Kevin crossed his arms and shifted. “How do you mean?”

“He doesn’t-” Andrew toyed with his cigarette pack but didn’t take one out. “He just doesn’t fit. I can’t figure it out when my brain’s all buzzy. But I don’t trust him,” he repeated.

“We’ll get his measure soon enough,” said Kevin. “Between day practices and night practices-”

“No.”

Kevin startled at the interruption. “No?” he asked incredulously.

Andrew nodded. “No can do, Kevin-o. Don’t want him alone with you. Not until I know why he ticks.”

“You’re joking,” said Kevin.

“Oh, always,” said Andrew with a grin. “Can’t keep a serious thought in my body when I’m flying this high, but I’m still not letting him on a court with you alone while I’m all the way in the bleachers. I’m not that stupid, and neither are you.”

“You could join us on the court,” Kevin pointed out.

Andrew just laughed. “Now who’s the jokester? No, that won’t do. Nothing for it, we’ll either have to break him now or wait until June when the distractions show up.”

“We aren’t going to break him at all,” Kevin ground out. “We need him to play.”

“Correction,” said Andrew, “ _You_ need him to play. _I_ don’t need him for anything.”

“He needs the extra practice. Desperately.”

“Sounds like another thing that is not at all my concern.” Andrew kept fiddling with that stupid box of cancer sticks.

“He will be a liability to the team without proper training,” Kevin tried.

“Again, I do not see why this has anything to do with me.”

“It has nothing to do with you, because you refuse to take the game seriously,” Kevin rejoined. “Until you decide to actually give a shit, I will dedicate my time to a player who cares. _Then_ it can be your business who I play with and when.”

“Hm.” Andrew considered that. “No. Not how it works. This is already my business, because I cannot keep you safe if you will not allow me to neutralize potential threats. And Neil Josten _is_ a potential threat.”

“How?” Kevin snapped. “In what way is he a threat?”

“I do not know yet,” said Andrew. “And I will not know until I break him open a bit to look inside.” He shrugged. “The sooner you let me do that, the sooner you can pick the pieces up and get him on your court.”

“Why are you so obsessed with him? He has done nothing exceptional so far.”

“Why are you?” Andrew retorted.

Kevin pursed his lips and didn’t respond.

Andrew just quirked his eyebrows and shook out a cigarette. He lit it and took a drag, then breathed the smoke right out into Kevin’s face.

Kevin held his breath as the smoke passed through him.

“It doesn’t make sense for you to be so obsessed with a no-name nobody from bumfuck nowhere who isn’t that good and barely even tolerates your presence,” said Andrew. “So I ask again: why?”

Kevin was silent for a long moment. “I don’t know,” he finally answered. “There’s just something about him…”

“There,” Andrew pointed at him with the cigarette. “ _That_ is exactly why I don’t trust him. There’s something about him, you’re right. I don’t like it, I don’t trust it, and I’m not letting you alone with it. _I_ keep my promises, whether you like it or not.” He raised an eyebrow. “Unless you’re saying I no longer have reason to?”

Kevin glared at him. “Don’t be stupid.” But he considered the problem. “June,” he decided. “It is not worth the risk of losing access to the court if we do it before then. Day practices alone are marginally better than no practices in a court at all.”

Andrew nodded, and Kevin almost shuddered at the manic gleam in his eye. “June it is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: I previously got my months WAY wrong and said September instead of June for when Andrew plans to break Neil. So, that is now fixed.


	7. The Transfer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kevin learns the Ravens are moving districts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, I'm back on my angsty bullshit!! Kevin suffers in this one. You've heard it from Neil's perspective, now we get Kevin's take on Edgar Allen's transfer.
> 
> TW for self-hatred, self-harm, alcohol dependency, flashbacks to torture (waterboarding), mentioned past rape, disassociation, panic attacks

The summer passed uneventfully and with obnoxious slowness. Josten proved to be just as much of a brain-dead idiot as Kevin had pegged him, blowing out his arms against Andrew on the first full day of practice. Despite the new striker being completely uninteresting and obviously not competent enough to be a threat, Andrew would still not let them practice nights together. Once, Josten showed up at the court during Kevin’s night practice, but he just talked to Andrew in the stands and did not put his energies towards any more useful behavior. It was…undeniably frustrating. Kevin could still see something in him, but he couldn’t _do_ anything to bring it out as long as Andrew stood in his way. That was fine. Kevin could wait him out.

One day at the end of May, Coach asked if he wanted to talk about offensive strategy going forward. Kevin most certainly did. Between Gordon and Josten, the line was going to be unbearable to play with. Dan was acceptable, but only just, and more for her skill at captaincy than her ability as an offensive dealer. Not that she was _bad_ , just that…she was not a Raven.

Kevin tried to remind himself that that was a good thing. Dan, as a captain, was not very likely to try and cripple him.

“Kevin may want to whine about sportsball, but I most certainly don’t want to listen to him,” said Andrew.

 _Surprise, surprise_. “No one asked your opinion.”

Andrew rolled his eyes. “Aren’t you just lucky that you got it anyway? He’s all yours, Coach. Send him back in one piece.”

So Kevin went to Wymack’s apartment to talk without Andrew at his side. That was okay. Andrew was nearby, still on-campus, and Kevin knew he was safe with Wymack. Maybe, after they talked about offense, if it went well, Kevin would potentially broach the whole father thing. Slowly. Test the waters.

“So,” said Wymack, when their strategy conversation was over, “I actually wanted to talk to you about something without Andrew present.” He clunked a bottle of vodka down on the coffee table.

Kevin froze. _Did he know?_ Should Kevin say something now?

“It’s about the Ravens. They’ve made a move.”

Icy panic rolled through him in waves. _Of course it was. Of course it was. It was always the Ravens. Everything in his life was always the Ravens._ It didn’t matter that he was gone from Edgar-Allen. It didn’t matter that he had _left_. It didn’t matter that he had taken everything he had inside of him and said, _no, I’m done with you_. ‘No’ wasn’t a thing that existed when you were a Raven. And you couldn’t say no to being a Raven.

 _Unless you’re Andrew. He said no_. Kevin’s traitorous mind whispered. But Kevin wasn’t Andrew. When Andrew said no, people listened. They scattered in fear, or he gutted them. When Kevin said no, they just kept carving him up.

Kevin cracked open the vodka and chugged as much as he could in one swallow. “What move?” he asked.

Wymack took a breath. “Here. They’re moving here. They’re transferring districts.”

For one blissful moment, it didn’t compute. Then it did.

Kevin was up before he knew it, already moving for the door, because this was it, this was it, he’d been called to heel and he had to go home. No choice. He’d been allowed his fun at playing freedom, but now the piper had come to collect.

“Sit down,” Wymack’s voice came from behind him.

Kevin couldn’t stop.

A hand caught his arm in an iron-fisted grip. “Kevin, come sit down.” Wymack’s voice was low and dangerous.

Kevin couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe and he couldn’t stop. Had to go. Had to go. Couldn’t breathe.

"Damn it, Kevin, I said sit down!" Somehow Wymack was in front of him, and Kevin jumped in panic. A small amount of air forced its way down his throat.

"I won't!" Kevin gasped out with whatever screeching panic could manage to escape his lungs. He gasped, trying desparately to breathe. Couldn’t—air. Didn’t make sense. Needed—breathe. “How could you let him do this?"

Wymack said something but Kevin couldn’t hear it. Black spots. Sound was gone. No air. He couldn’t—please. Air. Please. Couldn’t—see. Air. He was choking, choking, breathing in water from the towel Riko had wrapped around his face. Vision going dark. _No. Please. Air_. Choking—air.

“Hey!” His back was slammed against a wall, forcing the towel off his face for a brief reprieve, and it wasn’t Riko in front of him, smiling and cold, but Wymack, all red hot anger. _What?_ He gasped in, too shallow, but it was air. Real air. Or maybe he was hallucinating. This was nice. A vision before he went. He got to hallucinate his father, holding him and snarling like he actually cared about about Kevin, like Kevin actually deserved to be cared about. It was a better way to go out than most of the ways he’d imagined.

Somewhere far off, there was dull pain and shattering glass and the smell of vodka.

"Look at me," the father-hallucination was surprisingly persistent. "Look at me, god damn you, and breathe." Wymack breathed in, forcing Kevin to breathe along with him, in…and out. In…out. Air. Blessed, blessed air. And Kevin’s mind at least knew where he was again, even if he still couldn’t breathe right.

Wymack must have seen some awareness return to Kevin’s eyes, because he gave Kevin a small nod and unhanded him.

Kevin staggered and almost fell, having to support his own weight. “I warned Andrew he was going to come for me. I told him!"

“It doesn't matter,” said Wymack, steady and shakeable. “You signed a contract with me."

That didn’t mean anything. “He could pay off my scholarship in a heartbeat. You know he would. He'd pay you off and take me home and I—I can't go back there. I can't, I can't, I won't, I—I have to go.”

The breathing was becoming difficult again, but a plan was beginning to form in his mind. He looked around, desparate. “I have to go. I should go now, before he has to come for me. Maybe he'll forgive me if I go back.” Kevin didn’t believe it, but maybe he wouldn’t kill Andrew. Maybe he wouldn’t kill Wymack. Kevin didn’t want to be the reason his father died. “If I make him hunt me down any more than I have already he'll kill me for sure."

"Shut up," Wymack growled. "You're not going anywhere."

"I can't tell Riko no!" Because why couldn’t Wymack _get it_? Why couldn’t he see that Kevin needed to do this?

"Then don't say a word," Wymack said. "Keep your mouth shut and let me and Andrew do the talking.”

 _No_. Kevin shook his head and a pained whine escaped his lips. He couldn’t lose Wymack and Andrew too. He couldn’t.

“Yes, Andrew,” said Wymack. “Don't tell me you forgot about that psycho. I've got Betsy's number on speed dial. Want me to put you through to her office so you can talk to him? Want to tell him you're thinking about going back?”

Kevin stared at the phone Wymack was holding. He could—He could— Andrew would hate him forever if he went back. If he broke his word. And then he would spiral, no promises left to hold him to the court. And that would be a tragedy.

"I'm not letting you go back there," Wymack said, gentle but insistent. "Nothing says I have to. Your contract says you belong to me. He can send us all the money he wants, but you have to sign off on it before it means anything, and you're not going to. Okay?”

Kevin couldn’t nod, but he listened.

“You let me and Andrew worry about Riko fuck-face. You worry about getting your game and team where they need to be. You promised me you could get us past the fourth match this year."

"That was before," said Kevin, mournful. He could have, maybe even to semi-finals, he could have made Josten Court, he could have made Andrew care, but—Riko had come, and Kevin was called home. It didn’t matter what Kevin _could have_ done, had he been free. His actions did not belong to him. “This is now.”

Wymack just looked at him, expression unfathomable. ”The ERC is giving us until June before they break the news. They saw how many security issues we had over your transfer, so they're waiting until everyone's here where I can keep an eye on them.”

Wymack pressed his lips together and forced Kevin to meet his eyes. “I told you because you need to know, but I need you to keep it from Andrew until then.” His next words were deliberately slow and weighted. “Tell me you can see Andrew today and not completely freak out."

 _No. I can’t_. “Andrew will figure it out. He's not stupid.” That was part of the reason why Kevin trusted him to watch his back.

"Then you have to be the better liar," Wymack rejoined, no give in his tone.

Kevin had lied for twelve years, living with Riko. He had lied that he was happy to the press, obedient to the master, loyal to his brother. He had pretended that he hadn’t been tortured every night, that he hadn’t watched Jean being tortured and raped. He had never cracked, never faltered in his lies. He had lied for so long that it wasn’t a lie anymore. And it had nearly killed him. It had cost him his hand and his game and his soul, until there was almost nothing left that was his own. Not even the truth, because God or the devil alone knew what that was.

It was one of the only things that had gotten better, since he’d taken the coward’s way out and fled. He didn’t have to lie to Andrew. He didn’t want to lie to Andrew. He didn’t think he _could_ lie to Andrew, not now that he’d finally told him the truth.

Wymack must have seen some of his thoughts, because he said, ”The ERC is looking for a reason to take him away from us, and you _know_ they won't give him back. Then where will you be?"

 _Home._ The word flashed in his mind, and Kevin flinched. _The Nest is not your home_. Betsy’s voice in his thoughts. _Home is not where they hurt you_. He knew her words to be lies. Home was where Riko was, because Kevin could not exist without him. Andrew, for all his show at cruelty, was a poor replacement.

Kevin felt numb, disconnected. Was this a dream? He needed...something—he needed a—a tether. His hand was reaching out. ”Give me your phone."

Wymack frowned. ”If you think I'm going to let you use my phone to call him, you—"

"Jean," Kevin interrupted, distant. He would not talk to Riko. He _could_ not talk to Riko. If he did, he would break. "I have to call Jean. I have to hear him say it." If he didn’t say it, then it couldn’t be true. And it couldn’t be true, because then Kevin was already dead. Of course, Kevin had been dead for a long time. He was just a ghost inhabiting the body of Kevin Day.

Coach narrowed his eyes but handed Kevin his phone. Kevin dialed the number out of reflex, not even looking at the keys.

“Dis-moi que c'est faux,” the demand was out of Kevin’s mouth as soon as the ringing turned to expectant air. Jean’s breath hitched on the other side of the phone, and Kevin’s next words were more of a whispered plea. “Dis-moi qu’il ne faisait pas.” Even as the words escaped him he knew they were a tissue-paper shield that would crumple at even the slightest of sighs.

Jean was silent for a moment. And then: “Tu croyais vraiment que tes actes n’auraient pas des consequences?” The words were stark, clear, and completely unsympathetic. “C’est fait. Si tu ne reviendras pas vers lui-”*

Kevin snapped the phone shut before he even realized what he was doing and sank backwards into the couch. The world spun around him, and he wished he could just go back- just a few seconds, and never ask Jean, and never have to know, and _oh god oh god oh god Riko would be here. Riko would be here in person._

 _“_ Wait here,” said Wymack, and a few seconds later he returned with a fresh bottle of vodka to replace the one that had shattered on the floor at some point. “Drink,” he commanded. “I’ll be right back.”

So Kevin drank. Wymack was talking to someone—Josten?—Kevin couldn’t make himself care who. He just drank, because Wymack had told him to, and because he didn’t have anything else, and because Kevin was nothing if not a self-sabotaging coward. He knew it wasn’t good, his drinking. He knew it would hurt him in the long run. He knew it would make him wake up in pain, knew it would wreck his game and wreck his liver. But Kevin didn’t deserve happy mornings or a great career or a long life. So he drank until the world blurred and he finally was too drunk to know fear.

A long time later—or a short time, Kevin didn’t know—his father came back. He sat sentry on one end of the couch, going over paperwork, while Kevin stared at the spinning walls and waited for oblivion.

He blinked, and the walls turned into the ceiling. He was horizontal now, and maybe it was simply the ghost of his mother, but he felt someone massaging their Exy-calloused fingers through his hair. Kevin knew it wasn’t real, knew that it had been years since anyone deigned or dared touch him with any hint of kindness, but he let himself sink into the vodka-soaked dream anyway and imagined he could ever be loved.

* * *

*Translation:

Kevin: Tell me it isn’t true. Tell me he didn’t.

Jean: Did you really believe that your actions wouldn’t have consequences? It’s done. If you won’t go back to him—


End file.
